8 


JS 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


WHEN    I  WAS   YOUR   AGE 


a 


WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE 


BY 


LAURA   E.  RICHARDS 

AUTHOR   OF  "CAPTAIN   JANUARY,"    "MELODY," 
"QUEEN  HILDEGARDE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 

ESTES     AND     LAURIAT 
1894 


107093 


Copyright,  1893, 
BY  ESTES  AND  LAURIAT. 


•  •     •  ••  • 


HnibtrsttD 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


cop 


TO   THE 

Sear  anto  f^0n0trtJ  fftemorg  of  mg  Jatfjer, 

DR.   SAMUEL  GRIDLEY   HOWE. 


Thy  voice  comes  down  the  rolling  years 

Like  ring  of  steel  on  steel ; 
With  it  I  hear  the  tramp  of  steeds, 

And  the  trumpet's  silver  peal. 

I  see  thee  ride  thy  fearless  way, 

With  steadfast  look  intent, 
God's  servant,  still  by  night  and  day, 

On  his  high  errand  bent. 

Thy  lance  lay  ever  in  the  rest 

'Gainst  tyranny  and  wrong. 
Thy  steed  was  swift,  thine  aim  was  sure, 

Thy  sword  was  keen  and  strong. 


But  were  the  fainting  to  be  raised, 
The  sorrowing  comforted,  — 

The  warrior  vanished,  and  men  saw 
An  angel  stoop  instead. 


O  soldier  Father  !  dear  I  hold 
Thine  honored  name  to-day; 

Thy  high  soul  draws  mine  eyes 
And  beacons  me  the  way. 


And  when  my  heart  beats  quick  to  learn 

Some  deed  of  high  emprise, 
I  almost  see  the  answering  flash 

That  lightens  from  thine  eyes. 

I  greet  thee  fair  !    I  bless  thee  dear  ! 

And  here,  in  token  meet, 
I  pluck  these  buds  from  memory's  wreath  , 

And  lay  them  at  thy  feet. 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

I.     OURSELVES 13 

4 

<N             II.     MORE  ABOUT  OURSELVES 27 

III.  GREEN  PEACE 42 

IV.  THE  VALLEY .  62 

V.     OUR  FATHER 77 

,^i            VI.     JULIA  WARD 107 

VII.     OUR  MOTHER 129 

VIII.     OUR  TEACHERS 163 

IX.     OUR  FRIENDS 180 

X.     OUR  GUESTS 194 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 
GREEN   PEACE .•     .      .   Frontispiece 

MAUD 43 

LAURA  WAS  FOUND  IN  THE  SUGAR-BARREL    ...  53 

DR.  SAMUEL  GRIDLEY  HOWE 79 

THE  DOCTOR  TO  THE  RESCUE  ! 97 

JULIA  WARD  AND  HER  BROTHERS,  AS  CHILDREN    .  109 

(From   a  miniature  by  Miss  Anne  Hall.) 

LlEUT.-COLONEL    SAMUEL    WARD     .- 1 17 

(Born  Nov.  17,  1756;  Died  Aug.  16,  1832.) 

JULIA  WARD 125 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE 131 

JULIA  ROMANA  HOWE 149 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE 157 

(From  a  recent  photograph.) 

LAURA  E.  RICHARDS 177 


WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

OURSELVES. 

THERE  were  five  of  us.  There  had  been  six, 
but  the  Beautiful  Boy  was  taken  home  to 
heaven  while  he  was  still  very  little  ;  and  it 
was  good  for  the  rest  of  us  to  know  that 
there  was  always  one  to  wait  for  and  wel 
come  us  in  the  Place  of  Light  to  which  we 
should  go  some  day.  So,  as  I  said,  there 
were  five  of  us  here, — Julia  Romana,  Flor 
ence,  Harry,  Laura,  and  Maud.  Julia  was  the 
eldest.  She  took  her  second  name  from  the 
ancient  city  in  which  she  was  born,  and  she 
was  as  beautiful  as  a  soft  Italian  evening, — 
with  dark  hair,  clear  gray  eyes,  perfect  fea 
tures,  and  a  complexion  of  such  pure  and 
wonderful  red  and  white  as  I  have  never 


14  WHEN  1   H'AS   YOUR  AGE. 

seen  in  any  other  face.  She  had  a  look  as 
if  when  she  came  away  from  heaven  she 
had  been  allowed  to  remember  it,  while 
others  must  forget ;  and  she  walked  in  a 
dream  always,  of  beauty  and  poetry,  think 
ing  of  strange  things.  Very  shy  she  was, 
very  sensitive.  When  Flossy  (this  was 
Florence's  home  name)  called  her  "  a  great 
red-haired  giant,"  she  wept  bitterly,  and  re 
proached  her  sister  for  hurting  her  feeling. 
Julia  knew  everything,  according  to  the  be 
lief  of  the  younger  children.  What  story 
iraa  there  she  could  not  tell  ?  She  it  was 
who  led  the  famous  be  fore-breakfast  walks, 
when  we  used  to  start  off  at  six  o'clock  and 
walk  to  the  Yellow  Chases'  (we  never  knew 
any  other  name  for  them  ;  it  was  the  house 
that  was  yellow,  not  the  people)  at  the  top 
of  the  long  hill,  or  sometimes  even  to  the 
windmill  beyond  it,  where  we  could  see  the 
miller  at  work,  all  white  and  dusty,  and 
watch  the  white  sails  moving  slowly  round. 
And  on  the  way  Julia  told  us  stories,  from 
Scott  or  Shakspere ;  or  gave  us  the  plot  of 
some  opera.  "  Hrnani  "  or  "  Trovatore,"  with 


OURSELVES.  15 

snatches  of  song  here  and  there.  "  Ai  nostri 
monti  ritornaremo,"  whenever  I  hear  this 
familiar  air  ground  out  by  a  hand-organ, 
everything  fades  from  my  eyes  save  a  long 
white  road  fringed  with  buttercups  and  wild 
marigolds,  and  five  little  figures,  with  rosy 
hungry  faces,  trudging  along,  and  listening 
to  the  story  of  the  gypsy  queen  and  her 
stolen  troubadour. 

Julia  wrote  stories  herself,  too,  —  very 
wonderful  stories,  we  all  thought,  and,  in 
deed,  I  think  so  still.  She  began  when  she 
was  a  little  girl,  not  more  than  six  or  seven 
years  old.  There  lies  beside  me  now  on  the 
table  a  small  book,  about  five  inches  square, 
bound  in  faded  pink  and  green,  and  filled 
from  cover  to  cover  with  writing  in  a 
cramped,  childish  hand.  It  is  a  book  of 
novels  and  plays,  written  by  our  Julia  be 
fore  she  was  ten  years  old ;  and  I  often 
think  that  the  beautiful  and  helpful  things 
she  wrote  in  her  later  years  were  hardly 
more  remarkable  than  these  queer  little  ro 
mances.  They  are  very  sentimental ;  no 
child  of  eight,  save  perhaps  Marjorie  Flem- 


1 6  WHEN  I   WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

ing,  was  ever  so  sentimental  as  Julia, — "  Leo 
nora  May^re ;  A  Tale,"  u  The  Lost  Suitor," 
"  The  Offers."  I  must  quote  a  scene  from 
the  last-named  play. 

SCENE  I. 

Parlor  at  MRS.  EVANS'S.  FLORENCE  EVANS  alone. 
Enter  ANNIE. 

A.  Well,  Florence,  Bruin  is  going  to  make  an  offer, 
I  suppose. 

F.    Why*so  ? 

A.  Here  's  a  pound  of  candy  from  him.  He  said 
he  had  bought  it  for  you,  but  on  arriving  he 
was  afraid  it  was  too  trifling  a  gift;  but  hop 
ing  you  would  not  throw  it  away,  he  re 
quested  me  to  give  it  to  that  virtuous  young 
lady,  as  he  calls  you. 

F.  Well,  I  am  young,  but  I  did  not  know  that  I 
was  virtuous. 

A.     I  think  you  are. 

SCENE  n 
Parlor.     MR.  BRUIN  alone. 

MR.  B.  Why  doesn't  she  come?  She  does  n't 
usually  keep  me  waiting. 


OURSELVES.  I/ 

Enter  FLORENCE. 

F.  How  do  you  do?  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept 
you  waiting. 

MR.  B.  I  have  not  been  here  more  than  a  few 
minutes.  Your  parlor  is  so  warm  this  cold 
day  that  I  could  wait.  [Laughs. 

F.  You  sent  me  some  candy  the  other  day  which 
I  liked  very  much. 

MR.  B.  Well,  you  liked  the  candy;  so  I  pleased 
you.  Now  you  can  please  me.  I  don't 
care  about  presents ;  I  had  rather  have  some 
thing  that  can  love  me.  You. 

F.     I  do  not  love  you.  [Exit  MR.  BRUIN. 

SCENE  III.     , 
FLORENCE  alone.    Enter  MR.  CAS. 

F.     How  do  you  do? 

MR.  C.     Very  well. 

F.     It  is  a  very  pleasant  day. 

MR.  C.  Yes.  It  would  be  still  pleasanter  if  you 
will  be  my  bride.  I  want  a  respectful  re 
fusal,  but  prefer  a  cordial  acception. 

F.     You  can  have  the  former.          \_Exit  MR.  CAS. 

SCENE  IV. 

FLORENCE  with  MR.  EMERSON. 
MR.  E.     I  love  you,  Florence.     You  may  not  love 
me,  for  I  am  inferior  to  you ;   but  tell  me 


1 8  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

whether  you  do  or  not.     If  my  hopes  are 
true,  let  me  know  it,  and  I  shall    not   be 
doubtful  any  longer.     If  they  are  not,  tell 
me,  and  I  shall  not  expect  any  more. 
F.    They  are.  [Exit  MR.  KMERSON. 

The  fifth  scene  of  this  remarkable  drama 
is  laid  in  the  church,  and  is  very  thrilling. 
The  stage  directions  are  brief,  but  it  is  evi 
dent  from  the  text  that  as  Mr.  Emerson  and 
his  taciturn  bride  advance  to  the  altar, 
Messrs.  Cas  and  Bruin,  "  to  gain  some  pri 
vate  ends,"  do  the  same.  The  Bishop  is  in 
troduced  without  previous  announcement. 

SCENE  V. 

BISHOP.     Arc  you  ready? 

MR.  B.    Yes. 

BISHOP.     Mr.  Emerson,  are  you  ready? 

MR.  C.    Yes. 

HI-HOP.     Mr.  Emerson,  I  am  waiting. 

BRUIN  and  CAS  {together}.     So  am  I. 

MR.  E.     I  am  ready.     Hut  what  have  these  men 

to  do  with  our  marriage? 
MR.  B.     Florence,  I  charge  you  with  a  breach  of 

promise.    You  said  you  would  be  my  bride. 
F.     I  did  not. 


OURSELVES.  19 

MR.  C.     You  promised  me. 

F.     When? 

MR.  C.  A  month  ago.  You  said  you  would  marry 
me. 

MR.  B.  A  fortnight  ago  you  promised  me.  You 
said  we  would  be  married  to-day. 

MR.  C.  Bishop,  what  does  this  mean?  Florence 
Evans  promised  to  marry  me,  and  this  very 
day  was  fixed  upon.  And  see  how  false 
she  has  been  !  She  has,  as  you  see,  prom 
ised  both  of  us,  and  now  is  going  to  wed 
this  man. 

BISHOP.  But  Mr.  Emerson  and  Miss  Evans  made 
the  arrangements  with  me;  how  is  it  that 
neither  of  you  said  anything  of  it  before 
hand? 

MR.  C.     I  forgot. 

MR.  B.  So  did  I.  [F.  weeps. 

Enter  ANNIE. 

A.  I  thought  I  should  be  too  late  to  be  your 
bridesmaid,  but  I  find  I  am  in  time.  But  I 
thought  you  were  to  be  married  at  half-past 
four,  and  it  is  five  by  the  church  clock. 

MR.  E.  We  should  have  been  married  by  this 
time,  but  these  men  say  that  Florence  has 
promised  to  marry  them.  Is  it  true, 
Florence? 

F.     No.       [BESSY,  her  younger  sister,  supports  her. 


20  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

A.  It  is  n't  true,  for  you  know,  Edward  Bruin, 

that  you  and  I  are  engaged ;  and  Mr.  Cas 
and  Bessy  have  been  for  some  time.  And 
both  engagements  have  been  out  for  more 
than  a  week. 

[BESSY  looks  reproachfully  at  CAS. 

B.  Why,  Joseph  Cas  ! 

BISHOP.     Come,  Mr.  Emerson !     I  see   that   Mr. 

Cas   and    Mr.  Bruin   have   been   trying   to 

worry  your  bride.     But  their  story  can't  be 

true,  for  these  other  young  ladies  say  that 

they  are  engaged  to  them. 
F.     They  each  of  them  made  me  an  offer,  which  I 

refused  [Th<  BISHOP  marries  them. 

F.     [After  they  a*f  married."]     I  shall  never  again 

be  troubled  with  such  offers  [looks  at  CAS 

and  BRUIN]  as  yours  ! 

I  meant  to  give  one  scene,  and  I  have 
given  the  whole  play,  not  knowing  where  to 
stop.  There  was  nothing  funny  about  it  to 
Julia.  The  heroine,  with  her  wonderful  com 
mand  of  silence,  was  her  ideal  of  maiden 
reserve  and  dignity;  the  deep-dyed  villany 
of  Bruin  and  Cas,  the  retiring  manners  of 
the  fortunate  Emerson,  the  singular  spright- 
liness  of  the  Bishop,  were  all  perfectly  natural, 
as  her  vivid  mind  saw  them. 


OURSELVES.  21 

So  she  was  bitterly  grieved  one  day  when 
a  dear  friend  of  the  family,  to  whom  our 
mother  had  read  the  play,  rushed  up  to  her, 
and  seizing  her  hand,  cried,  — 

"'Julia,  will  you  have  me?'  'No!'  Exit 
Mr.  Bruin." 

Deeply  grieved  the  little  maiden  was ;  and  it 
cannot  have  been  very  lo'ng  after  that  time  that 
she  gave  the  little  book  to  her  dearest  aunt,  who 
has  kept  it  carefully  through  all  these  years. 

If  Julia  was  like  Milton's  "  Penseroso," 
Flossy  was  the  "  Allegro  "  in  person,  or  like 
Wordsworth's  maiden,  — 

"  A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay." 

She  was  very  small  as  a  child.  One  day  a 
lady,  not  knowing  that  the  little  girl  was 
within  hearing,  said  to  her  mother,  "  What  a 
pity  Flossy  is  so  small !  " 

"  I  'm  big  inside ! "  cried  a  little  angry  voice 
at  her  elbow ;  and  there  was  Flossy,  swelling 
with  rage,  like  an  offended  bantam.  And 
she  was  big  inside!  her  lively,  active  spirit 
seemed  to  break  through  the  little  body  and 
carry  it  along  in  spite  of  itself.  Sometimes 


22  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

it  was  an  impish  spirit;  always  it  was  an 
enterprising  one. 

She  it  was  who  invented  the  dances  which 
seemed  to  us  such  wonderful  performances. 
We  danced  every  evening  in  the  great  parlor, 
our  mother  playing  for  us  on  the  piano. 
There  was  the  "  Macbeth  "  dance,  in  which 
Flossy  figured  as  Lady  Macbeth.  With  a 
dagger  in  her  hand,  she  crept  and  rushed 
and  pounced  and  swooped  about  in  a  most 
terrifying  manner,  always  graceful  as  a  fairy. 
A  sofa-pillow  played  the  part  of  Duncan, 
and  had  a  very  hard  time  of  it.  The  "  Julius 
Gcsar "  dance  was  no  less  tragic ;  we  all 
took  part  in  it,  and  stabbed  right  and  left 
with  sticks  of  kindling-wood.  One  got  the 
curling-stick  and  was  happy,  for  it  was  the 
next  thing  to  the  dagger,  which  no  one 
but  Flossy  could  have.  Then  there  was  the 
dance  of  the  "  Four  Seasons,"  which  had 
four  figures.  In  spring  we  sowed,  in  summer 
we  reaped;  in  autumn  we  hunted  the  deer, 
and  in  winter  there  was  much  jingling  of 
bells.  The  hunting  figure  was  most  ex<  it 
ing.  It  was  performed  with  knives  (kindling- 


OURSELVES.  23 

wood),  as  Flossy  thought  them  more  romantic 
than  guns ;  they  were  held  close  to  the  side, 
1  with  point  projecting,  and  in  this  way  we 
moved  with  a  quick  chasse  step,  which, 
coupled  with  a  savage  frown,  was  supposed 
to  be  peculiarly  deadly. 

Flossy  invented  many  other  amusements, 
too.  There  was  the  school-loan  system. 
We  had  school  in  the  little  parlor  at  that 
time,  and  our  desks  had  lids  that  lifted  up. 
In  her  desk  Flossy  kept  a  number  of  precious 
things,  which  she  lent  to  the  younger  chil 
dren  for  so  many  pins  an  hour.  The  most 
valuable  thing  was  a  set  of  three  colored 
worsted  balls,  red,  green,  and  blue.  You 
could  set  them  twirling,  and  they  would  keep 
going  for  ever  so  long.  It  was  a  delightful 
sport;  but  they  were  very  expensive,  costing, 
I  think,  twenty  pins  an  hour.  It  took  a  long 
time  to  collect  twenty  pins,  for  of  course  it 
was  not  fair  to  take  them  out  of  the  pin 
cushions. 

Then  there  was  a  glass  eye-cup  without  a 
foot;  that  cost  ten  pins,  and  was  a  great 
favorite  with  us.  You  stuck  it  in  your  eye, 


24  ll'/IEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

and  tried  to  hold  it  there  while  you  winked 
with  the  other.  Of  course  all  this  was  done 
behind  the  raised  desk-lid,  and  I  have  some 
times  wondered  what  the  teacher  was  doing 
that  she  did  not  find  us  out  sooner.  She 
was  not  very  observant,  and  I  am  quite  sure 
she  was  afraid  of  Flossy.  One  sad  day, 
however,  she  caught  Laura  with  the  precious 
glass  in  her  eye,  and  it  was  taken  away  for 
ever.  It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  the  child  (I 
know  all  about  it.  for  I  was  Laura)  to  be 
told  that  she  could  never  have  it  again,  even 
after  school.  She  had  paid  her  ten  pins,  and 
she  could  not  see  what  right  the  teacher  had 
to  take  the  glass  away.  Hut  after  that  the 
school-loan  system  was  forbidden,  and  I 
have  never  known  what  became  of  the  three 
worsted  balls. 

Flossy  also  told  stories ;  or  rather  she 
told  one  story  which  had  no  end,  and  of 
which  we  never  tired.  Under  the  sea,  she 
told  us,  lived  a  fairy  named  Tatty,  who  was 
a  most  intimate  friend  of  hers,  and  whom 
she  visited  every  night.  Thi-  fairy  clwrlt  in 
a  palace  hollowed  out  of  a  single  immense 


OURSELVES.  25 

pearl.  The  rooms  in  it  were  countless,  and 
were  furnished  in  a  singular  and  delightful 
manner.  In  one  room  the  chairs  and  sofas 
were  of  chocolate ;  in  another,  of  fresh  straw 
berries  ;  in  another,  of  peaches, —  and  so  on. 
The  floors  were  paved  with  squares  of  choco 
late  and  cream  candy;  the  windows  were  of 
transparent  barley-sugar,  and  when  you  broke 
off  the  arm  of  a  chair  and  ate  it,  or  took  a 
square  or  two  out  of  the  pavement,  they  were 
immediately  replaced,  so  that  there  was  no 
trouble  for  any  one.  Patty  had  a  ball  every 
evening,  and  Flossy  never  failed  to  go. 
Sometimes,  when  we  were  good,  she  would 
take  us ;  but  the  singular  thing  about  it  was 
that  we  never  remembered  what  had  hap 
pened.  In  the  morning  our  infant  minds 
were  a  cheerful  blank,  till  Flossy  told  us  what 
a  glorious  time  we  had  had  at  Patty's  the 
night  before,  how  we  had  danced  with  Willie 
Winkie,  and  how  much  ice-cream  we  had 
eaten.  We  listened  to  the  recital  with  unal 
loyed  delight,  and  believed  every  word  of  it, 
till  a  sad  day  of  awakening  came.  We  were 
always  made  to  understand  that  we  could  not 


26  WHEN  t  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

bring  away  anything  from  Patty's,  and  were 
content  with  this  arrangement ;  but  on  this 
occasion  there  was  to  be  a  ball  of  peculiar 
magnificence,  and  Flossy,  in  a  fit  of  gener 
osity,  told  Harry  that  he  was  to  receive  a 
pair  of  diamond  trousers,  which  he  would  be 
allowed  to  bring  home.  Harry  was  a  child 
with  a  taste  for  magnificence ;  and  he  went 
to  bed  full  of  joy,  seeing  already  in  anticipa 
tion  the  glittering  of  the  jewelled  garment, 
and  the  effects  produced  by  it  on  the  small 
boys  of  his  acquaintance.  Bitter  was  the 
disappointment  when,  on  awakening  in  the 
morning,  the  chair  by  his  bedside  bore  only 
the  familiar  brown  knickerbockers,  with  a 
patch  of  a  lighter  shade  on  one  knee.  Harry 
wept,  and  would  not  be  comforted  ;  and  at'u-r 
that,  though  we  still  liked  to  hear  the  Patty 
stories,  we  felt  that  the  magic  of  them  was 
gone,  —  that  they  were  only  stories,  like 
"Blue-beard"  or  "Jack  and  the  Beanstalk. 


CHAPTER    II. 

MORE    ABOUT    OURSELVES. 

JULIA  and  Flossy  did  not  content  themselves 
with  writing  plays  and  telling  stories.  They 
aspired  to  making  a  language,  —  a  real  lan 
guage,  which  should  be  all  their  own,  and 
should  have  grammars  and  dictionaries  like 
any  other  famous  tongue.  It  was  called 
Patagonian,  —  whether  with  any  idea  of 
future  missionary  work  among  the  people 
of  that  remote  country,  or  merely  because 
it  sounded  well,  I  cannot  say.  It  was  a 
singular  lan^uacre.  I  wish  more  of  it  had 

o  o        o 

survived ;  but  I  can  give  only  a  few  of  its 
more  familiar  phrases. 

MILLDAM  —  Yes. 

PlLLDAM  —  No. 

MOUCHE  —  Mother. 

Bis  VON  SNOUT?  —  Are  you  well? 


28  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

BRUNK  TU  TOUCHY  SNOUT  —  I  am  very  well. 
CUING  CHU  STICK  STUMPS?  —  Will  you  have 
some  doughnuts? 

These  fragments  will,  I  am  sure,  make- 
my  readers  regret  deeply  the  loss  of  thi> 
language,  which  has  the  merit  of  entire 
originality. 

As  to  Flossy 's  talent  for  making  paper- 
dolls,  it  is  a  thing  not  to  be  described. 
There  were  no  such  paper-dolls  as  those. 
Their  figures  might  not  be  exactly  like  the 
human  figure,  but  how  infinitely  more 
graceful !  Their  waists  were  so  small  that 
they  sometimes  broke  in  two  when  called 
upon  to  courtesy  to  a  partner  or  a  queen : 
that  was  the  height  of  delicacy  !  They  had 
ringlets  invariably,  and  very  large  eyes  with 
amazing  lashes ;  they  smiled  with  unchang 
ing  sweetness,  filling  our  hearts  with  delight. 
Many  and  wonderful  were  their  dresses.  Tin- 
crinoline  of  the  day  was  magnified  into  a  sort 
of  vast  semi-circular  cloud,  adorned  about 
the  skirt  with  strange  patterns;  one  small 
doll  would  sometimes  wear  a  whole  sheet  of 
foolscap  in  an  evening  dress!  That  was 


MORE  ABOUT  OURSELVES.  29 

extravagant,  but  our  daughters  must  be  in  the 
fashion.  There  was  one  yellow  dress  belong 
ing  to  my  doll  Parthenia  (a  lovely  creature 
of  Jewish  aspect,  whose  waist  was  smaller 
than  her  legs),  which  is  not  even  now  to  be 
remembered  without  emotion.  We  built 
houses  for  the  paper-dolls  with  books  from 
the  parlor  table,  even  borrowing  some  from 
the  bookcase  when  we  wanted  an  extra  suite 
of  rooms.  I  do  not  say  it  was  good  for  the 
books,  but  it  was  very  convenient  for  the 
dolls.  I  have  reason  to  think  that  our  mother 
did  not  know  of  this  practice.  In  the  mat 
ter  of  their  taking  exercise,  however,  she 
aided  us  materially,  giving  us  sundry  empty 
trinket-boxes  lined  with  satin,  which  made 
the  most  charminsj  carriages  in  the  world. 

o  o 

The  state  coach  was  a  silver-gilt  portemonnaie 
lined  with  red  silk.  It  had  seen  better  days, 
and  the  clasp  was  broken ;  but  that  di \  not 
make  it  less  available  as  a  coach.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  Parthenia  in  it! 

I  do  not  think  we  cared  so  much  for  other 
dolls,  yet  there  were  some  that  must  be  men 
tioned.  Vashti  Ann  was  named  for  a  cook; 


30  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

she  belonged  to  Julia,  and  I  have  an  idea 
that  she  was  of  a  very  haughty  and  dis 
agreeable  temper,  though  I  cannot  remem 
ber  her  personal  appearance.  Still  more 
shadowy  is  my  recollection  of  Eliza  Viddi- 
pock,  —  a  name  to  be  spoken  with  bated 
breath.  What  dark  crime  this  wretched  doll 
had  committed  to  merit  her  fearful  fate,  I  do 
not  know;  it  was  a  thing  not  to  be  spoken 
of  to  the  younger  children,  apparently.  Hut 
I  do  know  that  she  was  hanged,  with  all 
solemnity  of  judge  and  hangman.  It  seems 
unjust  that  I  should  have  forgotten  the  name 
of  Julia's  good  doll,  who  died,  and  had  the 
cover  of  the  sugar-bowl  buried  with  her,  as 
a  tribute  to  her  virtues. 

Sally  Bradford  and  Clara  both  belonged 
to  Laura.  Sally  was  an  india-rubber  doll ; 
Clara,  a  doll  with  a  china  head  of  the  old- 
fashioned  kind,  smooth,  shining  black  hair, 
brilliant  rosy  cheeks,  and  calm  (very  calm) 
blue  eyes.  I  prefer  this  kind  of  doll  to  any 
other.  Clara's  life  was  an  uneventful  one, 
on  the  whole,  and  I  remember  only  one  re 
markable  thing  in  it.  A  little  girl  in  the 


MORE  ABOUT  OURSELVES.  3 1 

neighborhood  invited  Laura  to  a  dolls'  party 
on  a  certain  day:  she  was  to  bring  Clara  by 
special  request.  Great  was  the  excitement, 
for  Laura  was  very  small,  and  had  never  yet 
gone  to  a  party.  A  seamstress  was  in  the 
house  making  the  summer  dresses,  and  our 
mother  said  that  Clara  should  have  a  new 
frock  for  the  party.  It  seemed  a  very  won 
derful  thing  to  have  a  real  new  white  muslin 
frock,  made  by  a  real  seamstress,  for  one  's 
beloved  doll.  Clara  had  a  beautiful  white 
neck,  so  the  frock  was  made  low  and  trimmed 
with  lace.  When  the  afternoon  came,  Laura 
brought  some  tiny  yellow  roses  from  the 
greenhouse,  and  the  seamstress  sewed  them 
on  down  the  front  of  the  frock  and  round 
the  neck  and  hem.  It  is  not  probable  that 
any  other  doll  ever  looked  so  beautiful  as 
Clara  when  her  toilet  was  complete. 

Then  Laura  put  on  her  own  best  frock, 
which  was  not  one  half  so  fine,  and  tied  on 
her  gray  felt  bonnet,  trimmed  with  quillings 
of  pink  and  green  satin  ribbon,  and  started 
off,  the  proudest  and  happiest  child  in  the 
whole  world.  She  reached  the  house  (it  was 


32  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

very  near)  and  climbed  up  the  long  flight  of 
stone  steps,  and  stood  on  tiptoe  to  ring  the 
bell,  —  then  waited  with  a  beating  heart. 
Would  there  be  many  other  dolls  ?  Would 
any  of  them  be  half  so  lovely  as  Clara  ? 
Wrould  there  —  dreadful  thought !  —  would 
there  be  big  girls  there  ? 

The  door  opened.  If  any  little  girls  read 
this  they  will  now  be  very  sorry  for  Laura. 
There  was  no  dolls'  party!  Rosy's  mother 
(the  little  girl's  name  was  Rosy)  had  IK  .ml 
nothing  at  all  about  it ;  Rosy  had  gone  to 
spend  the  afternoon  with  Sarah  Crock rr. 

"  Sorry,  little  girl !  What  a  pretty  dolly ! 
Good-by,  dear!  "  and  then  the  door  was  shut 
again. 

Laura  toddled  down  the  long  stone  steps, 
and  went  solemnly  home.  She  did  not  cry, 
because  it  would  not  be  nice  to  cry  in  the 
street;  but  she  could  not  see  very  clearly. 
She  never  went  to  visit  Rosy  again,  and 
never  knew  whether  the  dolls'  party  had 
been  forgotten,  or  why  it  was  given  up. 

Before  leaving  the  subject  of  dolls,  I  must 
say  a  word  about  little  Maud's  first  doll. 


MORE  ABOUT  OURSELVES.  33 

Maud  was  a  child  of  rare  beauty,  as  beautiful 
as  Julia,  though  very  different.  Her  fair 
hair  was  of  such  color  and  quality  that  our 
mother  used  to  call  her  Sjlk-and-silver,  a 
name  which  suited  her  well ;  her  eyes  were 
like  stars  under  their  long  black  lasrfts.  So 
brilliant,  so  vivid  was  the  child's  coloring 
that  she  seemed  to  flash  with  silver  and  rosy 
li«:ht  as  she  moved  about  She  was  so  much 

o 

younger  than  the  others  that  in  many  of 
their  reminiscences  she  has  no  share ;  yet 
she  has  her  own  stones,  too.  A  friend  of 
our  father's,  being  much  impressed  with  this 
starry  beauty  of  the  child,  thought  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  give  her  the  prettiest  doll  that 
could  be  found;  accordingly  he  appeared  one 
day  bringing  a  wonderful  creature,  with  hair 
almost  like  Maud's  own,  and  great  blue  eyes 
that  opened  and  shut,  and  cheeks  whose 
steadfast  roses  did  not  flash  in  and  out,  but 
bloomed  always.  I  think  the  doll  was 
dressed  in  blue  and  silver,  but  am  not  sure ; 
she  was  certainly  very  magnificent. 

Maud    was    enchanted,    of    course,    and 
hugged  her  treasure,  and  went  off  with  it. 

3 


34  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

It  happened  that  she  had  been  taken  only 
the  day  before  to  see  the  blind  children  at 
the  Institution  near  by,  where  our  father 
spent  much  of  his  time.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  talked  with  the  little  blind 
girls,  aftd  they  made  a  deep  impression  on 
her  baby  mind,  though  she  said  little  at  the 
time.  As  I  said,  she  went  off  with  her  new 
doll,  and  no  one  saw  her  for  some  time.  At 
length  she  returned,  flushed  and  triumphant. 

"  My  dolly  is  blind,  now!  "  she  cried  ;  and 
she  displayed  the  doll,  over  whose  eyes  she 
had  tied  a  ribbon,  in  imitation  of  Laura 
Bridgman.  "  She  is  blind  Polly  !  ain't  got 
no  eyes  't  all !  " 

Alas !  it  was  even  so.  Maud  had  poked 
the  beautiful  blue  glass  eyes  till  they  fell 
in,  and  only  empty  sockets  were  hidden  by 
the  green  ribbon.  There  was  a  great  out 
cry,  of  course ;  but  it  did  not  disturb  Maud 
in  the  least.  She  wanted  a  blind  doll,  and 
she  had  one ;  and  no  pet  could  be  more 
carefully  tended  than  was  poor  blind  Polly. 

More  precious  than  any  doll  could  be, 
rises  in  my  memory  the  majestic  form  of 


MORE  ABOUT  OURSELVES.  35 

Pistachio.  It  was  Flossy,  ever  fertile  in 
invention,  who  discovered  the  true  worth  of 
Pistachio,  and  taught  us  to  regard  with  awe 
and  reverence  this  object  of  her  affection. 
Pistachio  was  an  oval  mahogany  footstool, 
covered  with  green  cloth  of  the  color  of  the 
nut  whose  name  he  bore.  I  have  the  im 
pression  that  he  had  lost  a  leg,  but  am  not 
positive  on  this  point.  He  was  considered 
an  invalid,  and  every  morning  he  was  put 
in  the  baby-carriage  and  taken  in  solemn 
procession  down  to  the  brook  for  his  morn 
ing  bath.  One  child  held  a  parasol  over  his 
sacred  head  (only  he  had  no  head!),  two 
more  propelled  the  carriage,  while  the  other 
two  went  before  as  outriders.  No  mirth  was 
allowed  on  this  occasion,  the  solemnity  of 
which  was  deeply  impressed  on  us.  Arrived 
at  the  brook,  Pistachio  was  lifted  from  the 
carriage  by  his  chief  officer,  Flossy  herself, 
and  set  carefully  down  on  the  flat  stone 
beside  the  brook.  His  sacred  legs  were 
dipped  one  by  one  into  the  clear  water,  and 
dried  with  a  towel.  Happy  was  the  child 
who  was  allowed  to  perform  this  function ! 


36  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

After  the  bath,  he  was  walked  gently  up 
and  down,  and  rubbed,  to  as>i>t  the  circula 
tion  ;  then  he  was  put  back  in  his  carriage, 
and  the  procession  started  for  home  again, 
with  the  same  gravity  and  decorum  as  be 
fore.  The  younger  children  felt  sure  there 
was  some  mystery  about  Pistachio.  I  can 
not  feel  sure,  even  now,  that  he  was  noth 
ing  more  than  an  ordinary  oval  cricket ; 
but  his  secret,  whatever  it  was,  has  perished 
with  him. 

I  perceive  that  I  have  said  little  or  noth 
ing  thus  far  about  Harry ;  yet  he  was  a  very 
important  member  of  the  family.  The  only 
boy :  and  such  a  boy!  He  was  by  nature  a 
Very  Imp,  such  as  has  been  described  by 
Mr.  Stockton  in  one  of  his  delightful  sto 
Not  two  years  old  was  he  when  he  began  to 
pull  the  tails  of  all  the  little  dogs  he  met, — 
a  habit  which  he  long  maintained.  The 
love  of  mischief  was  deeply  rooted  in  him. 
It  was  not  safe  to  put  him  in  the  closet  for 
misbehavior ;  for  he  cut  off  the  pockets  of 
the  dresses  hanging  there,  and  snipped  the 
fringe  off  his  teacher's  best  shawl.  Yet  he 


MORE  ABOUT  0 URSEL  VES.  3 7 

was  a  sweet  and  affectionate  child,  with  a 
tender  heart  and  sensitive  withal.  When 
about  four  years  old,  he  had  the  habit  of 
summoning  our  father  to  breakfast ;  and, 
not  being  able  to  say  the  word,  would  an 
nounce,  "  Brescott  is  ready  !  "  This  excited 
mirth  among  the  other  children,  which  he 
never  could  endure;  accordingly,  one  morn 
ing  he  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
room  and  said  solemnly,  "  Papa,  your  food  is 
prepared !  " 

It  is  recorded  of  this  child  that  he  went 
once  to  pay  a  visit  to  some  dear  relatives, 
and  kept  them  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  until  he 
was  taken  home  again.  One  day  it  was  his 
little  cousin's  rocking-horse,  which  disap 
peared  from  the  nursery,  and  shortly  after 
was  seen  airing  itself  on  the  top  of  the  chim 
ney,  kicking  its  heels  in  the  sunshine,  and 
appearing  to  enjoy  its  outing.  Another  time 
it  was  down  the  chimney  that  the  stream  of 
mischief  took  its  way ;  and  a  dear  and  ven 
erable  visitor  (no  other  than  Dr.  Coggeshall, 
of  Astor  Library  fame),  sitting  before  the  fire 
in  the  twilight,  was  amazed  by  a  sudden 

107U93 


38  WHEN  T  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

shower  of  boots  tumbling  down,  one  after 
another,  into  the  ashes,  whence  he  consci 
entiously  rescued  them  with  the  tongs,  at 
peril  of  receiving  some  on  his  good  white 
head. 

Such  boots  and  shoes  as  escaped  this  fiery 
ordeal  were  tacked  by  Master  Harry  to  the 
floor  of  the  closets  in  the  various  rooms ; 
and  while  he  was  in  the  closet,  what  could 
be  easier  or  pleasanter  than  to  cut  off  the 
pockets  of  the  dresses  hanging  there  ?  Alto 
gether,  Egypt  was  glad  when  Harry  departed; 
and  I  do  not  think  he  made  many  more  visits 
away  from  home,  till  he  had  outgrown  the 
clays  of  childhood. 

At  the  age  of  six,  Harry  determined  to 
marry,  and  offered  his  hand  and  heart  to 
Mary,  the  nurse,  an  excellent  woman  some 
thirty  years  older  than  he.  He  sternly  for 
bade  her  to  sew  or  do  other  nursery  work, 
saying  that  his  wife  must  not  work  for  her 
living.  About  this  time,  too,  he  told  our 
mother  that  he  thought  he  felt  his  beard 
growing. 

He  was  just  two  years  older  than  Laura, 


MORE  ABOUT  OURSELVES.  39 

and  the  tie  between  them  was  very  close. 
Laura's  first  question  to  a  stranger  was 
always,  "  Does  you  know  my  bulla  Hally  ? 
I  hope  you  does  ! "  and  she  was  truly  sorry 
for  any  one  who  had  not  that  privilege. 

The  two  children  slept  in  tiny  rooms  ad 
joining  each  other.  It  was  both  easy  and 
pleasant  to  "  talk  across  "  while  lying  in  bed, 
when  they  were  supposed  to  be  sound  asleep. 
Neither  liked  to  give  up  the  last  word  of 
greeting,  and  they  would  sometimes  say 
"  Good-night !  "  "  Good-night !  "  over  and  over, 
backward  and  forward,  for  ten  minutes 
together.  In  general,  Harry  was  very  kind 
to  Laura,  playing  with  her,  and  protecting 
her  from  any  roughness  of  neighbor  children. 
(They  said  "bunnit"  and  "apurn,"  and  "I 
wunt;  "  and  we  were  fond  of  correcting  them, 
which  they  not  brooking,  quarrels  were  apt 
to  ensue.)  But  truth  compels  me  to  tell  of 
one  occasion  on  which  Harry  did  not  show 
a  brotherly  spirit.  In  the  garden,  under  a 
great  birch-tree,  stood  a  trough  for  watering 
the  horses.  It  was  a  large  and  deep  trough, 
and  always  full  of  beautiful,  clear  water.  It 


40  \VHEN  J  WAS  YOUR  ACE. 

was  pleasant  to  lean  over  the  edge,  and  see 
the  sky  and  the  leaves  of  the  tree  reflected 
as  if  in  a  crystal  mirror ;  to  see  one's  own 
rosy,  freckled  face,  too,  and  make  other 
faces ;  to  see  which  could  open  eyes  or 
mouth  widest 

Now  one  day,  as  little  Laura,  being  per 
haps  four  years  old,  was  hanging  over  the 
edge  of  the  trough,  forgetful  of  all  save  the 
delight  of  gazing,  it  chanced  that  Harry 
came  up  behind  her ;  and  the  spirit  of  mis 
chief  that  was  always  in  him  triumphed  over 
brotherly  affection,  and  he 

44  Ups  with  her  heels, 
And  smothers  her  squeals  " 

in  the  clear,  cold  water. 

Laura  came  up  gasping  and  puffing,  her 
hair  streaming  all  over  her  round  face,  her 
eyes  staring  with  wonder  and  fright ! 

By  the  time  help  arrived,  as  it  fortunately 
did,  in  the  person  of  Thomas  the  gardener, 
poor  Laura  was  in  a  deplorable  condition, 
half  choked  with  water,  and  frightened  nearly 
out  of  her  wits. 

Thomas  carried  the  dripping  child  to  the 


MORE  ABOUT  OURSELVES.  41 

house  and  put  her  into  Mary's  kind  arms, 
and  then  reported  to  our  mother  what  Harry 
had  done. 

We  were  almost  never  whipped ;  but  for 
this  misdeed  Harry  was  put  to  bed  at  once, 
and  our  mother,  sitting  beside  him,  gave 
him  what  we  used  to  call  a  "  talking  to," 
which  he  did  not  soon  forget. 

Nurse  Mary  probably  thought  it  would 
gratify  Laura  to  know  that  naughty  Harry 
was  being  punished  for  his  misdoings ;  but 
she  had  mistaken  her  child.  When  the 
mother  came  back  to  the  nursery  from 
Harry's  room,  she  found  Laura  (in  dry 
raiment,  but  with  cheeks  still  crimson  and 
shining)  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
with  clenched  fists  and  flashing  eyes,  and 
roaring  at  the  top  of  her  lungs,  "  I  '11  tumble 
my  mudder  down  wid  a  'tick !  " 


CHAPTER   III. 

GREEN    PEACE. 

NOT  many  children  can  boast  of  having  two 
homes;  some,  alas!  have  hardly  one.  But 
we  actually  had  two  abiding-places,  both  of 
which  were  so  dear  to  us  that  we  loved  them 
equally.  First,  there  was  Green  Peace. 
When  our  mother  first  came  to  the  place, 
and  saw  the  fair  garden,  and  the  house  with 
its  lawn  and  its  shadowing  trees,  she  gave  it 
this  name,  half  in  sport ;  and  the  title  clung 
to  it  always. 

The  house  itself  was  pleasant.  The  origi 
nal  building,  nearly  two  hundred  years  old, 
was  low  and  squat,  with  low-studded  rooms, 
and  great  posts  in  the  corners,  and  small 
many-paned  windows.  As  I  recall  it  now,  it 
consisted  largely  of  cupboards,  —  the  queerest 
cupboards  that  ever  were ;  some  square  and 
some  three-cornered,  and  others  of  no  shape 


MAUD. 


GREEN  PEACE.  45 

at  all.  They  were  squeezed  into  staircase 
walls,  they  lurked  beside  chimneys,  they  were 
down  near  the  floor,  they  were  close  beneath 
the  ceiling.  It  was  as  if  a  child  had  built 

O 

the  house  for  the  express  purpose  of  playing 
hide-and-seek  in  it.  Ah,  how  we  children 
did  play  hide-and-seek  there !  To  lie  curled 
up  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  "  twisty " 
cupboard,  that  went  burrowing  in  under  the 
front  stairs,  —  to  lie  curled  up  there,  eating 
an  apple,  and  hear  the  chase  go  clattering 
and  thumping  by,  that  was  a  sensation! 

Then  the  stairs !  There  was  not  very 
much  of  them,  for  a  tall  man  standing  on 
the  ground  floor  could  touch  the  top  step 
with  his  hand.  But  they  had  a  great  deal  of 
variety ;  no  two  steps  went  the  same  way : 
they  seemed  to  have  fallen  out  with  one  an 
other,  and  never  to  have  "  made  up  "  again. 
When  you  had  once  learned  how  to  go  up 
and  down,  it  was  very  well,  except  in  the 
dark ;  and  even  then  you  had  only  to  remem 
ber  that  you  must  tread  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  first  two  steps,  and  on  the  hither  side 
of  the  next  three,  and  in  the  middle  of  four 


46  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

after,  and  then  you  were  near  the  top  or  the 
bottom,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  could 
scramble  or  jump  for  it.  But  it  was  not  well 
for  strangers  to  go  up  and  down  those  stairs. 
There  was  another  flight  that  was  even 
more  perilous,  but  our  father  had  it  boarded 
over,  as  he  thought  it  unsafe  for  any  one  to 
use.  One  always  had  a  shiver  in  passing 
through  a  certain  dark  passage,  when  one 
felt  boards  instead  of  plaster  under  one's 
hand,  and  knew  that  behind  those  boards 
lurked  the  hidden  staircase.  There  was 
something  uncanny  about  it,  — 

"  O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted." 

Perhaps  the  legend  of  the  hidden  staircase 
was  all  the  more  awful  because  it  was  never 
told. 

Just  to  the  right  of  the  school-room,  a 
door  opened  into  the  new  part  of  the  house 
which  our  father  had  built.  The  first  room 
was  the  great  dining-room ;  and  very  great  it 
was.  On  the  floor  was  a  wonderful  carpet, 
all  in  one  piece,  which  was  made  in  France, 


GREEN  PEACE.  47 

and  had  belonged  to  Joseph  Bonaparte,  a 
brother  of  the  great  Emperor.  In  the  mid 
dle  was  a  medallion  of  Napoleon  and  Marie 
Louise,  with  sun-rays  about  them ;  then  came 
a  great  circle,  with  strange  beasts  on  it  ramp 
ing  and  roaring  (only  they  roared  silently); 
and  then  a  plain  space,  and  in  the  corners 
birds  and  fishes  such  as  never  were  seen  in 
air  or  sea.  Yes,  that  was  a  carpet !  It  was 
here  we  danced  the  wonderful  dances.  We 
hopped  round  and  round  the  circle,  and  we 
stamped  on  the  beasts  and  the  fishes ;  but  it 
was  not  good  manners  to  step  on  the  Em 
peror  and  Empress,  —  one  must  go  round 
them.  Here  our  mother  sang  to  us ;  but 
the  singing  belongs  to  another  chapter. 

The  great  dining-room  had  a  roof  all  to 
itself,  —  a  flat  roof,  covered  with  tar  and 
gravel,  and  railed  in ;  so  that  one  could  lie 
on  one's  face  and  kick  one's  heels,  pick  out 
white  pebbles,  and  punch  the  bubbles  of  tar 
all  hot  in  the  sun. 

But,  after  all,  we  did  not  stay  in  the  house 
much.  Why  should  we,  with  the  garden 
calling  us  out  with  its  thousand  voices  ?  On 


48  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

each  side  of  the  house  lay  an  oval  lawn. 
green  as  emerald.  One  lawn  had  the  labur 
num-tree,  where  at  the  right  time  of  year 
we  sat  under  a  shower  of  fragrant  gold ;  the 
other  had  the  three  hawthorn-trees,  one  with 
white  blossoms,  another  with  pink,  and  a 
third  with  deep  red,  rose-like  flowers.  Other 
trees  were  there,  but  I  do  not  remember 
them.  Directly  in  front  of  the  house  stood 
two  giant  Balm-of-Gilead  trees,  towering  over 
the  low-roofed  dwelling.  These  trees  were 
favorites  of  ours,  for  at  a  certain  time  they 
dropped  down  to  us  thousands  and  thousands 
of  sticky  catkins,  full  of  the  most  charming, 
silky  cotton.  We  called  them  the  "  cotton 
wool-trees,"  and  loved  them  tenderly.  Then, 
between  the  trees,  a  flight  of  steps  plunged 
down  to  the  green-house.  A  curious  place 
this  was,  —  summer-house,  hot-house,  and 
bowling-alley,  all  in  one.  The  summer-house 
part  was  not  very  interesting,  being  all  filled 
with  seeds  and  pots  and  dry  bulbs,  and  the 
like.  But  from  it  a  swing-door  opened  into 
Elysium  !  Here  the  air  was  soft  and  balmy, 
and  full  of  the  smell  of  roses.  One  went 


GREEN  PEACE.  49 

down  two  steps,  and  there  were  the  roses 
themselves  !  Great  vines  trained  along  the 
walls,  heavy  with  long  white  or  yellow  or  tea- 
colored  buds,  —  I  remember  no  red  ones.  Mr. 
Arrow,  the  gardener,  never  let  us  touch  the 
roses,  and  he  never  gave  us  a  bud  ;  but  when 
a  rose  was  fully  open,  showing  its  golden 
heart,  he  would  often  pick  it  for  us,  with  a 
sigh,  but  a  kind  look  too.  Mr.  Arrow  was 
an  Englishman,  stout  and  red-faced.  Julia 
made  a  rhyme  about  him  once,  beginning, — 

"  Poor  Mr.  Arrow,  he  once  was  narrow, 
But  that  was  a  long  time  ago." 

Midway  in  the  long  glass-covered  building 
was  a  tiny  oval  pond,  lined  with  green  moss. 
I  think  it  once  had  goldfish  in  it,  but  they 
did  not  thrive.  When  Mr.  Arrow  was  gone 
to  dinner,  it  was  pleasant  to  fill  the  brass 
syringe  with  water  from  this  pond,  and  squirt 
at  the  roses,  and  feel  the  heavy  drops  plash 
ing  back  in  one's  upturned  face.  Sometimes 
a  child  fell  into  the  pond;  but  as  the  water 
was  only  four  or  five  inches  deep,  no  harm 
was  done,  save  to  stockings  and  petticoats. 

4 


50  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

The  bowling-alley  was  divided  be/  a  low 
partition  from  the  hot-house,  so  that  when 
we  went  to  play  at  planets  we  breathed  the 
same  soft,  perfumed  air.  The  planets  were 
the  balls.  The  biggest  one  was  Uranus ; 
then  came  Saturn,  and  so  on  down  to  Mer 
cury,  a  little  dot  of  a  ball.  They  were  of 
some  dark,  hard,  foreign  wood,  very  smooth, 
with  a  dusky  polish.  It  was  a  great  delight 
to  roll  them,  either  over  the  smooth  floor, 
against  the  ninepins,  or  along  the  rack  at  the 
side.  When  one  rolled  Uranus  or  Jupiter, 
it  sounded  like  thunder,  —  Olympian  thun 
der,  suggestive  of  angry  gods.  Then  the 
musical  tinkle  of  the  pins,  as  they  clinked 
and  fell  together !  Sometimes  they  were 
British  soldiers,  and  we  the  Continentals, 
firing  the  "  iron  six-pounder  "  from  the  other 
end  of  the  battle-field.  Sometimes,  regard 
less  of  dates,  we  introduced  artillery  into  the 
Trojan  war,  and  Hector  bowled  Achilles  off 
his  legs,  or  vice  versa. 

The  bowling-alley  was  also  used  for  other 
sports.  It  was  here  that  Flossy  gave  a  grand 
party  for  Cotchy,  her  precious  Maltese  cat. 


GREEN  PEACE.  51 

All  the  cat-owning  little  girls  in  the  neigh 
borhood  were  invited,  and  about  twelve  came, 
each  bringing  her  pet  in  a  basket.  Cotchy 
was  beautifully  dressed  in  a  cherry-colored 
ribbon,  which  set  off  her  gray,  satiny  coat  to 
perfection.  She  received  her  guests  with 
much  dignity,  but  was  not  inclined  to  do 
much  toward  entertaining  them.  Flossy  tried 
to  make  the  twelve  cats  play  with  one  an 
other,  but  they  were  shy  on  first  acquaint 
ance,  and  a  little  stiff.  Perhaps  Flossy  did 
not  in  those  days  know  the  proper  etiquette 
for  introducing  cats,  though  since  then  she 
has  studied  all  kinds  of  etiquette  thoroughly. 
But  the  little  girls  enjoyed  themselves,  if 
the  cats  did  not,  and  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  chattering  and  comparing  notes.  Then 
came  the  feast,  which  consisted  of  milk  and 
fish-bones ;  and  next  every  cat  had  her  nose 
buttered  by  way  of  dessert.  Altogether,  the 
party  was  voted  a  great  success. 

Below,  and  on  both  sides  of  the  green 
house,  the  fertile  ground  was  set  thick  with 
fruit-trees,  our  father's  special  pride.  The 
pears  and  peaches  of  Green  Peace  were 


52  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

known  far  and  wide ;  I  have  never  seen 
such  peaches  since,  nor  is  it  only  the  halo  of 
childish  recollection  that  shines  around  them, 
for  others  bear  the  same  testimony.  Crim 
son-glowing,  golden-hearted,  smooth  and  per 
fect  as  a  baby's  cheek,  each  one  was  a  thing 
of  wonder  and  beauty ;  and  when  you  ate 
one,  you  ate  summer  and  sunshine.  Our 
father  gave  us  a  great  deal  of  fruit,  but  we 
were  never  allowed  to  take  it  ourselves  with 
out  permission  ;  indeed,  I  doubt  if  it  ever 
occurred  to  us  to  do  so.  One  of  us  still  re 
members  the  thrill  of  horror  she  felt  when  a 
little  girl  who  had  come  to  spend  the  after 
noon  picked  up  a  fallen  peach  and  ate  it, 
without  asking  leave.  It  seemed  a  dreadful 
thing  not  to  know  that  the  garden  was  a 
field  of  honor.  As  to  the  proverbial  sweet 
ness  of  stolen  fruit,  we  knew  nothing  about 
it.  The  fruit  was  sweet  enough  from  our 
dear  father's  hand,  and,  as  I  said,  he  gave  us 
plenty  of  it. 

How  was  it,  I  wonder,  that  this  sense  of 
honor  seemed  sometimes  to  stay  in  the  gar 
den  and  not  always  to  come  into  the  house  ? 


LAURA  WAS  FOUND  IN  THE  SUGAR-BARREL. 


GREEN  PEACE.  55 

For  as  I  write,  the  thought  comes  to  me  of 
a  day  when  Laura  was  found  with  her  feet 
sticking  out  of  the  sugar-barrel,  into  which 
she  had  fallen  head  foremost  while  trying  to 
get  a  lump  of  sugar.  She  has  never  eaten  a 
lump  of  sugar,  save  in  her  tea,  since  that  day. 
Also,  it  is  recorded  of  Flossy  and  Julia,  that, 
being  one  day  at  the  Institution,  they  found 
the  store-room  open,  and  went  in,  against  the 
law.  There  was  a  beautiful  polished  tank, 
which  appeared  to  be  full  of  rich  brown 
syrup.  Julia  and  Flossy  liked  syrup;  so 
each  filled  a  mug,  and  then  they  counted 
one,  two,  three,  and  each  took  a  good  draught, 
—  and  it  was  train-oil! 

But  in  both  these  cases  the  culprits  were 
hardly  out  of  babyhood;  so  perhaps  they  had 
not  yet  learned  about  the  "  broad  stone  of 
honor,"  on  which  it  is  good  to  set  one's  feet. 

I  must  not  leave  the  garden  without  speak 
ing  of  the  cherry-trees.  These  must  have 
been  planted  by  early  settlers,  perhaps  by  the 
same  hand  that  planned  the  crooked  stairs 
and  quaint  cupboards  of  the  old  house,  — 
enormous  trees,  gnarled  and  twisted  like 


56  WHEN  I   WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

ancient  apple-trees,  and  as  sturdy  as  they. 
They  had  been  grafted  —  whether  by  our 
father's  or  some  earlier  hand  I  know  not  — 
with  the  finest  varieties  of  "white-hearts" 
and  "black-hearts,"  and  they  bore  amazing 
quantities  of  cherries.  These  attracted 
flocks  of  birds,  which  our  father  in  vain  tried 
to  frighten  away  with  scarecrows.  Once  he 
put  the  cat  in  a  bird-cage,  and  hung  her  up 
in  the  white-heart  tree;  but  the  birds  soon 
found  that  she  could  not  get  at  them,  and 
poor  pussy  was  so  miserable  that  she  was 
quickly  released. 

I  perceive  that  we  shall  not  get  to  the 
summer  home  in  this  chapter;  but  I  must 
say  a  word  about  the  Institution  for  the 
Blind,  which  was  within  a  few  minutes'  walk 
of  Green  Peace. 

Many  of  our  happiest  hours  were  spent  in 
this  pleasant  place,  the  home  of  patient  cheer 
fulness  and  earnest  work.  We  often  went 
to  play  with  the  blind  children  when  our 
lessons  and  theirs  were  over,  and  they  came 
trooping  out  into  the  sunny  playground.  I 
do  not  think  it  occurred  to  us  to  pity  these 


GREEN  PEACE.  57 

boys  and  girls  deprived  of  one  of  the  chief 
sources  of  pleasure  in  life ;  they  were  so 
happy,  so  merry,  that  we  took  their  blindness 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

Our  father  often  gave  us  baskets  of  fruit 
to  take  to  them.  That  was  a  great  pleasure. 
We  loved  to  turn  the  great  globe  in  the  hall, 
and,  shutting  our  eyes,  pass  our  fingers  over 
the  raised  surfaces,  trying  to  find  different 
places.  We  often  "  played  blind,"  and  tried 
to  read  the  great  books  with  raised  print, 
but  never  succeeded  that  I  remember.  The 
printing-office  was  a  wonderful  place  to  lin 
ger  in ;  and  one  could  often  get  pieces  of 
marbled  paper,  which  was  valuable  in  the 
paper-doll  world.  Then  there  was  the  gym 
nasium,  with  its  hanging  rings,  and  its  won 
derful  tilt,  which  went  up  so  high  that  it  took 
one's  breath  away.  Just  beyond  the  gymna 
sium  were  some  small  rooms,  in  which  were 
stored  worn-out  pianos,  disabled  after  years 
of  service  under  practising  fingers.  It  was 
very  good  fun  to  play  on  a  worn-out  piano. 
There  were  always  a  good  many  notes  that 
really  sounded,  and  they  had  quite  individual 


58  WHEN  I   WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

sounds,  not  like  those  of  common  pianos; 
then  there  were  some  notes  that  buzzed,  and 
some  that  growled,  and  some  that  made  no 
noise  at  all ;  and  one  could  poke  in  under 
the  cover,  and  twang  the  strings,  and  play 
with  the  chamois-leather  things  that  went 
flop  (\ve  have  since  learned  that  they  are 
called  hammers),  and  sometimes  pull  them 
out,  though  that  seemed  wicked. 

Then  there  was  the  matron's  room,  where 
we  were  always  made  welcome  by  the  sweet 
and  gracious  woman  who  still  makes  sun 
shine  in  that  place  by  her  lovely  presence. 

Dear  Miss  M was  never  out  of  patience 

with  our  pranks,  had  always  a  picture-book 
or  a  flower  or  a  curiosity  to  show  us,  and 
often  a  story  to  tell  when  a  spare  half-hour 
came.  For  her  did  Flossy  and  Julia  act  tlu-ir 
most  thrilling  tragedies,  no  other  spectators 
being  admitted.  To  her  did  Harry  and  Laura 
confide  their  infant  joys  and  woes.  Other 
friends  will  have  a  chapter  to  themselves,  but 
it  seems  most  fitting  to  speak  of  this  friend 
here,  in  telling  of  the  home  she  has  made 
bright  for  over  fifty  years. 


GREEN  PEACE.  59 

Over  the  way  from  the  Institution  stood 
the  workshop,  where  blind  men  and  women, 
many  of  them  graduates  of  the  Institution, 
made  mattresses  and  pillows,  mats  and 
brooms.  This  was  another  favorite  haunt 
of  ours.  There  was  a  stuffy  but  not  un 
pleasant  smell  of  feathers  and  hemp  about 
the  place.  I  should  know  that  smell  if  I  met 
it  in  Siberia!  There  were  coils  of  rope, 
sometimes  so  large  that  one  could  squat 
down  and  hide  in  the  middle,  piles  of  hemp, 
and  dark  mysterious  bins  full  of  curled 
hair,  white  and  black.  There  was  a  dread 
ful  mystery  about  the  black-hair  bin ;  the  lit 
tle  ones  ran  past  it,  with  their  heads  turned 
away.  But  they  never  told  what  it  was,  and 
one  of  them  never  knew. 

But  the  crowning  joy  of  the  workshop  was 
the  feather-room,  —  a  long  room,  with  smooth, 
clean  floor;  along  one  side  of  it  were  divi 
sions,  like  the  stalls  in  a  stable,  and  each  di 
vision  was  half  filled  with  feathers.  Boy  and 
girl  readers  will  understand  what  a  joy  this 
must  have  been,  —  to  sit  down  in  the  feath 
ers,  and  let  them  cover  you  up  to  the  neck, 


60  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

and  be  a  setting  hen  !  or  to  lie  at  full  length, 
and  be  a  traveller  lost  in  the  snow, —  Harry 
making  it  snow  feathers  till  you  were  all 
covered  up,  and  then  turning  into  the  faith 
ful  hound  and  dragging  you  out !  or  to  play 
the  game  of  "  Winds,"  and  blow  the  feathers 
about  the  room !  But  old  Margaret  did  not 
allow  this  last  game,  and  we  could  do  it  only 
when  she  happened  to  go  out  for  a  moment, 
which  was  not  very  often.  Old  Margaret 
was  the  presiding  genius  of  the  feather-room, 
a  half-blind  woman,  who  kept  the  feathers  in 
order  and  helped  to  sew  up  the  pillows  and 
mattresses.  She  was  always  kind  to  us,  and 
let  us  rake  feathers  with  the  great  wooden 
rake  as  much  as  we  would.  Later,  when 
Laura  was  perhaps  ten  years  old,  she  used  to 
go  and  read  to  old  Margaret.  Mrs.  Brown 
ing's  poems  were  making  a  new  world  for 
the  child  at  that  time,  and  she  never  felt  a 
moment's  doubt  about  the  old  woman's  en. 
joying  them :  in  after  years  doubts  did  occur 
to  her. 

It  was  probably  a  quaint  picture,  if   any 
one  had  looked  in  upon   it:    the   long,  low 


GREEN  PEACE.  6 1 

room,  with  the  feather-heaps,  white  and 
dusky  gray ;  the  half-blind,  withered  crone, 
nodding  over  her  knitting,  and  the  little 
earnest  child,  throwing  her  whole  soul  into 
"  The  Romaunt  of  the  Page,"  or  the  "  Rhyme 
of  the  Duchess  May." 

"  Oh  !  the  little  birds  sang  east, 
And  the  little  birds  sang  west, 
Toll  slowly ! " 

The  first  sound  of  the  words  carries  me 
back  through  the  years  to  the  feather-room 

O  J 

and  old  blind  Margaret. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   VALLEY. 

THE  time  of  our  summer  flitting  varied. 
Sometimes  we  stayed  at  Green  Peace  till 
after  strawberry-time,  and  lingered  late  at 
the  Valley;  sometimes  we  went  early,  and 
came  back  in  time  for  the  peaches.  But  in 
one  month  or  another  there  came  a  season 
of  great  business  and  bustle.  Woollen  dresses 
were  put  away  in  the  great  cedar-lined  cam 
phor-chests  studded  with  brass  nails;  calico 
dresses  were  lengthened,  and  joyfully  as 
sumed  ;  trunks  were  packed,  and  boxes  and 
barrels ;  carpets  were  taken  up  and  laid  away; 
and  white  covers  were  put  over  pictures  and 
mirrors.  Finally  we  departed,  generally  in 
more  or  less  confusion. 

I  remember  one  occasion  when  our  rear 
column  reached  the  Old  Colony  Station  just 
as  the  train  was  starting.  The  advance- 


THE    VALLEY.  63 

guard,  consisting  of  our  mother  and  the 
older  children,  was  already  on  board  ;  and 
Harry  and  Laura  have  a  vivid  recollection 
of  being  caught  up  by  our  father  and  tum 
bled  into  the  moving  baggage-car,  he  flash 
ing  in  after  us,  and  all  sitting  on  trunks, 
panting,  till  we  were  sufficiently  revived  to 
pass  through  to  our  seats  in  the  passenger- 
car.  In  those  days  the  railway  ran  no 
farther  than  Fall  River.  There  we  must 
take  a  carriage  and  drive  twelve  miles  to 
our  home  in  the  Island  of  Rest.  Twelve 
long  and  weary  miles  they  were,  much 
dreaded  by  us  all.  The  trip  was  made  in 
a  large  old-fashioned  vehicle,  half  hack,  half 
stage.  The  red  cushions  were  hard  and  un 
comfortable  ;  the  horses  were  aged ;  their 
driver,  good,  snuff-colored  Mr.  Anthony,  felt 
keenly  his  duty  to  spare  them,  and  considered 
the  passengers  a  minor  affair.  So  we  five 
children  were  cramped  and  cooped  up,  I 
know  not  how  long.  It  seemed  hours  that 
we  must  sit  there,  while  the  ancient  horses 
crawled  up  the  sandy  hills,  or  jogged  medita 
tively  along  the  level  spaces.  Every  joint 


64  WHEN  I   WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

developed  a  separate  ache;  our  legs  were 
cramped,  —  the  short  ones  from  hanging 
over  the  seat,  the  long  ones  because  the 
floor  of  the  coach  was  piled  with  baskets 
and  bandboxes.  It  was  hot,  hot !  The  flies 
buzzed,  and  would  not  let  one  go  to  sleep ; 
the  dust  rolled  in  thick  yellow  clouds  from 
under  the  wheels,  and  filled  eyes  and  mouth, 
and  set  all  a-sneezing.  Decidedly,  it  was  a 
most  tiresome  jaunt.  But  all  the  more  de 
lightful  was  the  arrival !  To  drive  in  under 
the  apple-trees,  just  as  the  evening  was  fall 
ing  cool  and  sweet;  to  tumble  out  of  the 
stuffy  prison-coach,  and  race  through  the 
orchard,  and  out  to  the  barn,  and  up  the 
hill  behind  the  house, — ah,  that  was  worth 
all  the  miseries  of  the  journey ! 

From  the  hill  behind  the  house  we  could 
see  the  sunset ;  and  that  was  one  thing  we 
did  not  have  at  Green  Peace,  shut  in  by  its 
great  trees.  Here,  before  our  eyes,  still  ach 
ing  from  the  dust  of  the  road,  lay  the  great 
bay,  all  a  sheet  of  silver,  with  white  sails  here 
and  there;  beyond  it  Conanicut, a  long  island. 
brown  in  the  noon-light,  now  softened  into 


THE    VALLEY.  6$ 

wonderful  shades  of  amethyst  and  violet ; 
and  the  great  sun  going  down  in  a  glory  of 
gold  and  flame!  Nowhere  else  are  such  sun 
sets.  Sometimes  the  sky  was  all  strewn  with 
fiery  flakes  and  long  delicate  flame-feathers, 
glowing  with  rosy  light;  sometimes  there 
were  purple  cloud-islands,  edged  with  crim 
son,  and  between  them  and  the  real  island  a 
space  of  delicate  green,  so  pure,  so  cold,  that 
there  is  nothing  to  compare  with  it  save  a 
certain  chrysoprase  our  mother  had. 

Gazing  at  these  wonders,  the  children 
would  stand,  full  of  vague  delight,  not  know 
ing  what  they  thought,  till  the  tea-bell  sum 
moned  them  to  the  house  for  a  merry  picnic 
supper.  Then  there  was  clattering  upstairs, 
washing  of  hands  in  the  great  basin  with  pur 
ple  grapes  on  it  (it  belonged  in  the  guest- 
chamber,  and  we  were  not  allowed  to  use  it 
save  on  special  occasions  like  this),  hasty 
smoothing  of  hair  and  straightening  of  col 
lars,  and  then  clatter !  clatter !  down  again. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  the 
house  at  the  Valley.  It  was  just  a  pleasant 
cottage,  with  plenty  of  sunny  windows  and 

5 


66  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

square,  comfortable  rooms.  But  we  were 
seldom  in  the  house,  save  at  meal-times  or 
when  it  rained;  and  our  real  home  was  under 
the  blue  sky.  First,  there  was  the  orchard. 
It  was  an  ideal  orchard,  with  the  queerest 
old  apple-trees  that  ever  were  seen.  They  did 
not  bear  many  apples,  but  they  were  delight 
ful  to  climb  in,  with  trunks  slanting  so  that 
one  could  easily  run  up  them,  and  branches 
that  curled  round  so  as  to  make  a  comfort 
able  back  to  lean  against.  There  arc  f<  \v 
pleasanter  things  than  to  sit  in  an  apple-tree 
and  read  poetry,  with  birds  twittering  undis 
mayed  beside  you,  and  green  leaves  whisper 
ing  over  your  head.  Laura  was  generally 
doing  this  when  she  ought  to  have  been 
mending  her  stockings. 

Then  there  was  the  joggl ing-board,  under 
the  two  biggest  trees.  The  delight  of  a 
joggl  ing-board  is  hardly  to  be  explained 
to  children  who  have  never  known  it;  but 
I  trust  many  children  do  know  it.  The 
board  is  long  and  smooth  and  springy,  sup 
ported  at  both  ends  on  stands ;  and  one  can 
play  all  sorts  of  things  on  it.  Many  a  circus 


THE    VALLEY.  67 

has  been  held  on  the  board  at  the  Valley! 
We  danced  the  tight-rope  on  it ;  we  leaped 
through  imaginary  rings,  coming  down  on 
the  tips  of  our  toes ;  we  hopped  its  whole 
length  on  one  foot ;  we  wriggled  along  it  on 
our  stomachs,  on  our  backs ;  we  bumped 
along  it  on  hands  and  knees.  Dear  old  jog- 
gling-board!  it  is  not  probable  that  any  other 
was  ever  quite  so  good  as  ours. 

Near  by  was  the  pump,  a  never-failing 
wonder  to  us  when  we  were  little.  The  well 
over  which  it  stood  was  very  deep,  and  it 
took  a  long  time  to  bring  the  bucket  up. 
It  was  a  chain-pump,  and  the  chain  went 
rattlety-clank !  rattlety-clank !  round  and 
round  ;  and  the  handle  creaked  and  groaned, 
—  "Ah-7/0/  ah-/w/"  When  you  had  turned 
a  good  while  there  came  out  of  the  spout  a 
stream  of  —  water  ?  No !  of  daddy-long- 
legses  !  They  lived,  apparently,  in  the 
spout,  and  they  did  not  like  the  water;  so 
when  they  heard  the  bucket  coming  up,  with 
the  water  going  "lip!  lap!"  as  it  swung  to 
and  fro,  they  came  running  out,  dozens  and 
dozens  of  them,  probably  thinking  what 


68  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

unreasonable  people  we  were  tc,  disturb 
them.  When  the  water  did  finally  come,  it 
was  wonderfully  cold,  and  clear  as  crystal. 

The  hill  behind  the  house  was  perhaps 
our  favorite  play-room.  It  was  a  low,  rocky 
hill,  covered  with  "  prostrate  juniper " 
bushes,  which  bore  blue  berries  very  useful 
in  our  housekeeping.  At  the  top  of  the  rise 
the  bare  rock  cropped  out,  dark  gray,  cov 
ered  with  flat,  dry  lichens.  This  was  our 
house.  It  had  several  rooms:  the  drawing- 
room  was  really  palatial,  —  a  broad  floor  of 
rock,  with  flights  of  steps  leading  up  to  it. 
The  state  stairway  was  used  for  kings  and 
queens, conquerors,  and  the  like;  the  smaller 
was  really  more  convenient,  as  the  steps  were 
more  sharply  defined,  and  you  were  not  so 
apt  to  fall  down  them.  Then  there  was  the 
dining-room  rock,  where  meals  were  served, 
—  daisy  pudding  and  similar  delicacies ;  and 
the  kitchen  rock,  which  had  a  real  oven,  and 
the  most  charming  cupboards  imaginable. 
Here  were  stored  hollyhock  cheeses,  and  sor 
rel  leaves,  and  twigs  of  black  birch,  fragrant 
and  spicy,  and  many  other  good  things. 


THE    VALLEY.  69 

On  this  hill  was  celebrated,  on  the  first  of 
August,  the  annual  festival  of  "  Yeller's  Day." 
This  custom  was  begun  by  Flossy,  and  ad 
hered  to  for  many  years.  Immediately  after 
breakfast  on  the  appointed  day,  all  the  chil 
dren  assembled  on  the  top  of  the  hill  and 
yelled.  Oh,  how  we  yelled!  It  was  a 
point  of  honor  to  make  as  much  noise  as 
possible.  We  roared  and  shrieked  and 
howled,  till  we  were  too  hoarse  to  make  a 
sound  ;  then  we  rested,  and  played  something 
else,  perhaps,  till  our  voices  were  restored, 
and  then  —  yelled  again!  Yeller's  Day  was 
regarded  as  one  of  the  great  days  of  the 
summer.  By  afternoon  we  were  generally 
quite  exhausted,  and  we  were  hoarse  for  sev 
eral  days  afterward.  I  cannot  recommend 
this  practice.  In  fact,  I  sincerely  hope  that 
no  child  will  attempt  to  introduce  it ;  for  it 
is  very  bad  for  the  voice,  and  might  in  some 
cases  do  real  injury. 

Almost  every  morning  we  went  down  to 
the  bay  to  bathe.  It  was  a  walk  of  nearly  a 
mile  through  the  fields,  —  such  a  pleasant 
walk!  The  fields  were  not  green,  but  of  a 


70  WHEN  I  WAS  F0£/#  AGE. 

soft  russet,  the  grass  being  thin  and  dry, 
with  great  quantities  of  a  little  pinkish  fuzzy 
plant  whose  name  we  never  knew.1  They 
were  divided  by  stone  walls,  which  we  were 
skilful  in  climbing.  In  some  places  there 
were  bars  which  must  be  let  down,  or  climbed 
over,  or  crawled  through,  as  fancy  suggested. 
There  were  many  blackberries,  of  the  low- 
bush  variety,  bearing  great  clusters  of  berries, 
glossy,  beautiful,  delicious.  We  were  not 
allowed  to  eat  them  on  the  way  down,  but 
only  when  coming  home.  Some  of  these 
fields  belonged  to  the  Cross  Farmer,  who 
had  once  been  rude  to  us.  We  regarded 
him  as  a  manner  of  devil,  and  were  always 
looking  round  to  see  if  his  round-shouldered, 
blue-shirted  figure  were  in  sight.  At  last  the 
shore  was  reached,  and  soon  we  were  all  in 
the  clear  water,  shrieking  with  delight,  pad 
dling  about,  puffing  and  blowing  like  a  school 
of  young  porpoises. 

At  high-tide  the  beach  was  pebbled ;  at 
low-tide  we  went  far  out,  the  ground  sloping 
very  gradually,  to  a  delightful  place  where 

1  1  find  it  to  be  stone  clover. 


THE    VALLEY.  71 

the  bottom  was  of  fine  white  sand,  sparkling 
as  if  mixed  with  diamond  dust.  Starfish 
crawled  about  on  it,  and  other  creatures,  — 
crabs,  too,  sometimes,  that  would  nip  an  un 
wary  toe  if  they  got  a  chance.  Sometimes 
the  water  was  full  of  jelly-fish,  which  we  did 
not  like,  in  spite  of  their  beauty.  Beyond 
the  white  sand  was  a  bed  of  eel-grass,  very 
dreadful,  not  to  be  approached.  If  a  person 
went  into  it,  he  was  instantly  seized  and  en 
tangled,  and  drowned  before  the  eyes  of  his 
companions.  This  was  our  firm  belief.  It 
was  probably  partly  due  to  Andersen's  story 
of  the  "  Little  Sea-Maid,"  which  had  made  a 
deep  impression  on  us  all,  with  its  clutching 
polyps  and  other  submarine  terrors. 

We  all  learned  to  swim  more  or  less,  but 
Flossy  was  the  best  swimmer. 

Sometimes  we  went  to  bathe  in  the  after 
noon  instead  of  the  morning,  if  the  tide 
suited  better.  I  remember  one  such  time 
when  we  came  delightfully  near  having  an 
adventure.  It  was  full  moon,  and  the  tide 
was  very  high.  We  had  loitered  along  the 
beach  after  our  bath,  gathering  mussels  to 


72  WHEX  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

boil  for  tea,  picking  up  gold-shells  or  scallop- 
shells,  and  punching  seaweed  bladders,  which 
pop  charmingly  if  you  do  them  right. 

German  Mary,  the  good,  stupid  nurse  who 
was  supposed  to  be  taking  care  of  us,  knew 
nothing  about  tides ;  and  when  we  came 
back  to  the  little  creek  which  we  must  cross 
on  leaving  the  beach,  lo!  the  creek  was  a 
deep,  broad  stream,  the  like  of  which  \u- 
had  never  seen.  What  was  to  be  done? 
Valiant  Flossy  proposed  to  swim  across  and 
get  help,  but  Mary  shrieked  and  would  not 
hear  of  it,  and  we  all  protested  that  it  was 
impossible.  Then  we  perceived  that  we 
must  spend  the  night  on  the  beach  ;  and 
when  we  were  once  accustomed  to  the  idea, 
it  was  not  without  attraction  for  us.  The 
sand  was  warm  and  dry,  and  full  of  shells 
and  pleasant  things ;  it  was  August,  and  the 
night  would  be  just  cool  enough  for  comfort 
after  the  hot  day ;  we  had  a  pailful  of  black 
berries  which  we  had  picked  on  the  way 
down,  meaning  to  eat  them  during  our 
homeward  walk  ;  Julia  could  tell  us  stories. 
Altogether  it  would  be  a  very  pleasant  occa- 


THE  VALLEY.  73 

si6n.  And  then  to  think  of  the  romance  of 
it!  "The  Deserted  Children!"  "Alone  on 
a  Sandbank!  "  "  The  Watchers  of  the  Tide!" 
There  was  no  end  to  the  things  that  could 
be  made  out  of  it.  So,  though  poor  Mary 
wept  and  wrung  her  hands,  mindful  (which 
I  cannot  remember  that  we  were)  of  our 
mother  waiting  for  us  at  home,  we  were  all 
very  happy. 

The  sun  went  down  in  golden  state. 
Then,  turning  to  the  land,  we  watched  the 
moon  rising,  in  softer  radiance,  but  no  less 
wonderful  and  glorious.  Slowly  the  great 
orb  rose,  turning  from  pale  gold  to  purest 
silver.  The  sea  darkened,  and  presently  a 
little  wind  came  up,  and  began  to  sing  with 
the  murmuring  waves.  We  sang,  too,  some 
of  the  old  German  student-songs  which  our 
mother  had  taught  us,  and  which  were  our  fa 
vorite  ditties.  They  rang  out  merrily  over 
the  water :  — 

Die  Binschgauer  ivollten  ivallfahrten  geh'ttf 
(The  Binschgauer  would  on  a  pilgrimage  go  ! ) 

or,— 

Was  kommt  dort  von  der  Hoh'f 
(What  comes  there  over  the  hill  ? ) 


74  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

Then  Julia  told  us  a  story.  Perhaps 'it 
was  the  wonderful  story  of  Red-cap,  —  a  boy 
who  met  a  giant  in  the  forest,  and  did  some 
thing  to  help  him,  I  cannot  remember  what. 
Whereupon  the  grateful  giant  gave  Red-cap 
a  covered  silver  dish,  with  a  hunter  and  a 
hare  engraved  upon  it.  When  the  boy 
wanted  anything  he  must  put  the  cover  on, 
and  ask  the  hunter  and  hare  to  give  him 
what  he  desired  ;  but  there  must  be  a  rhyme 
in  the  request,  else  it  could  not  be  granted. 
Red-cap  thanked  the  giant,  and  as  soon  as 
he  was  alone  put  the  cover  on  the  dish  and 
said,  — 

«'  Silver  hunter,  silver  hare, 
Give  me  a  ripe  and  juicy  pear !  " 

Taking  off  the  cover,  he  found  the  finest 
pear  that  ever  was  seen,  shining  like  pure 
gold,  with  a  crimson  patch  on  one  side.  It 
was  so  delicious  that  it  made  Red-cap  hun 
gry ;  so  he  covered  the  dish  again  and  said: 

"Silver  hunt  r,  silver  rabbit, 
Give  me  an  apple,  and  I  '11  grab  it !  " 

Off  came  the  cover,  and,  lo!  there  was  an 
apple  the  very  smell  of  which  was  too  good 


THE    VALLEY.  ?$ 

for  any  one  save  the  truly  virtuous.  It  was 
so  large  that  it  rilled  the  dish,  and  its  flavor 
was  not  to  be  described,  so  wonderful  was  it ! 
A  third  time  the  happy  Red-cap  covered  his 
dish,  and  cried, — 

"  Hunter  and  hare,  of  silver  each, 
Give  me  a  soft  and  velvet  peach !  " 

And  when  he  saw  the  peach  he  cried  out  for 
joy,  for  it  was  like  the  peaches  that  grew  on 
the  crooked  tree  just  by  the  south  door  of 
the  greenhouse  at  Green  Peace  ;  and  those 
were  the  best  trees  in  the  garden,  and  there 
fore  the  best  in  the  world. 

The  trouble  about  this  story  is  that  I 
never  can  remember  any  more  of  it,  and  I 
cannot  find  the  book  that  contains  it.  But 
it  must  have  been  about  this  time  that  we 
were  hailed  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
creek ;  and  presently  a  boat  was  run  out,  and 
came  over  to  the  sand  beach  and  took  us  off. 
The  people  at  the  Poor  Farm,  which  was  on 
a  hill  close  by,  had  seen  the  group  of  Crusoes 
and  come  to  our  rescue.  They  greeted  us 
with  words  of  pity  (which  were  quite  un 
necessary),  rowed  us  to  the  shore,  and  then 


76  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

kindly  harnessed  the  farm-horse  and  drove 
us  home.  German  Mary  was  loud  in  her 
thanks  and  expressions  of  relief ;  our  mother 
also  was  grateful  to  the  good  people ;  but  from 
us  they  received  scant  and  grudging  thanks. 
If  they  had  only  minded  their  own  business 
and  let  us  alone,  we  could  have  spent  the 
night  on  a  sandbank.  Now  it  was  not  likely 
that  we  ever  should !  And,  indeed,  we  never 
did. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OUR    FATHER. 

(THE  LATE  DR.  SAMUEL  GRIDLEY  HOWE.) 

THERE  is  so  much  to  tell  about  our  father 
that  I  hardly  know  where'  to  begin.  First, 
you  must  know  something  of  his  appearance. 
He  was  tall  and  very  erect,  with  the  carriage 
and  walk  of  a  soldier.  His  hair  was  black, 
with  silver  threads  in  it ;  his  eyes  were  of  the 
deepest  and  brightest  blue  I  ever  saw.  They 
were  eyes  full  of  light:  to  us  it 'was  the  soft, 
beaming  light  of  love  and  tenderness,  but 
sometimes  to  others  it  was  the  flash  of  a 
sword.  He  was  very  handsome ;  in  his 
youth  he  had  been  thought  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  of  his  day.  It  was  a  gal 
lant  time,  this  youth  of  our  father.  When 
hardly  more  than  a  lad,  he  went  out  to  help 
the  brave  Greeks  who  were  fighting  to  free 


78  WHEN  I  WAS    YOUR  AGE. 

their  country  from  the  cruel  yoke  of  the 
Turks.  At  an  age  when  most  young 
men  were  thinking  how  they  could  make 
money,  and  how  they  could  best  advance 
themselves  in  the  world,  our  father  thought 
only  how  he  could  do  most  good,  be  of  most 
help  to  others.  So  he  went  out  to  Greece, 
and  fought  in  many  a  battle  beside  the  brave 
mountaineers.  Dressed  like  them  in  the 
"snowy  chemise  and  the  shaggy  capote,"  he 
shared  their  toils»and  their  hardships ;  slept, 
rolled  in  his  cloak,  under  the  open  stars,  or 
sat  over  the  camp-fire,  roasting  wasps  strung 
on  a  stick  like  dried  cherries.  The  old 
Greek  chieftains  called  him  "  the  beautiful 
youth,"  and  loved  him.  Once  he  saved  the 
life  of  a  wounded  Greek,  at  the  risk  of  his 
own,  as  you  shall  read  by  and  by  in  Whittier's 
beautiful  words ;  and  the  rescued  man  fol 
lowed  him  afterward  like  a  dog,  not  wishing 
to  lose  sight  of  him  for  an  hour,  and  would 
even  sleep  at  his  feet  at  night. 

Our  father's  letters  and  journals  give  vivid 
pictures  of  the  wild  life  among  the  rugged 
Greek  mountains.  Now  he  describes  his 


DR.  SAMUEL  GKIIH.KY   HOWE. 


OUR  FATHER.  8 1 

lodging  in  a  village,  which  he  has  reached 
late  at  night,  in  a  pouring  rain :  — 

"  Squatted  down  upon  a  sort  of  straw  pillow 
placed  on  the  ground,  I  enjoy  all  the  luxury  of  a 
Grecian  hut ;  which  in  point  of  elegance,  ease,  and 
comfort,  although  not  equal  to  the  meanest  of  our 
negro  huts,  is  nevertheless  somewhat  superior  to 
the  naked  rock.  We  have  two  apartments,  but  no 
partitions  between  them,  the  different  rooms  being 
constituted  by  the  inequality  of  the  ground,  —  we 
living  up  the  hill,  while  the  servants  and  horses 
live  down  in  the  lower  part ;  and  the  smoke  of  our 
fires,  rising  to  the  roof  and  seeking  in  vain  for 
some  hole  to  escape,  comes  back  again  to  me." 

Again,  he  gives  a  pleasant  account  of  his 
visit  to  a  good  old  Greek  priest,  who  lived 
with  his  family  in  a  tiny  cottage,  the  best 
house  in  the  village.  He  found  the  good 
old  man  just  sitting  down  to  supper  with 
his  wife  and  children,  and  was  invited  most 
cordially  to  join  them.  The  supper  con 
sisted  of  a  huge  beet,  boiled,  and  served  with 
butter  and  black  bread.  This  was  enough 
for  the  whole  family,  and  the  guest  too ;  and 
after  describing  the  perfect  contentment  and 


82  WHEN  I   WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

cheerfulness  which  reigned  in  the  humble 
dwelling,  our  father  makes  some  reflections 
on  the  different  things  which  go  to  make  up 
a  pleasant  meal,  and  decides  that  the  old 
44  Papa  "  (as  a  Greek  priest  is  called)  had  r, 
much  better  supper  than  many  rich  people 
he  remembered  at  home,  who  feasted  three 
times  a  day  on  all  that  money  could  furnish 
in  the  way  of  good  cheer,  and  found  neither 
joy  nor  comfort  in  their  victuals. 

Once  our  father  and  his  comrades  lay 
hidden  for  hours  in  the  hollow  of  an  ancient 
wall  (built  thousands  of  years  ago,  perhaps 
in  Homer's  day),  while  the  Turks,  scimitar  in 
hand,  scoured  the  fields  in  search  of  them. 
Many  years  after,  he  showed  this  hollow 
to  Julia  and  Laura,  who  went  with  him  on 
his  fourth  journey  to  Greece,  and  told  them 
the  story. 

When  our  father  saw  the  terrible  suffer 
ings  of  the  Greek  women  and  children,  who 
were  starving  while  their  husbands  and 
fathers  were  fighting  for  life  and  freedom,  he 
thought  that  he  could  help  best  by  helping 
them ;  so,  though  I  know  he  loved  the  fight- 


OUR  FATHER.  83 

ing,  for  he  was  a  born  soldier,  he  came  back 
to  this  country,  and  told  all  that  he  had  seen, 
and  asked  for  money  and  clothes  and  food  for 
the  perishing  wives  and  mothers  and  children. 
He  told  the  story  well,  and  put  his  whole 
heart  into  it ;  and  people  listen  to  a  story  so 
told.  Many  hearts  beat  in  answer  to  his, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  sailed  for  Greece 
again,  with  a  good  ship  full  of  rice  and 
flour,  and  cloth  to  make  into  garments,  and 
money  to  buy  whatever  else  might  be  needed. 
When  he  landed  in  Greece,  the  women 
came  flocking  about  him  by  thousands,  cry 
ing  for  bread,  and  praying  God  to  bless  him. 
He  felt  blessed  enough  when  he  saw  the  chil 
dren  eating  bread,  and  saw  the  naked  backs 
covered,  and  the  sad,  hungry  faces  smiling 
again.  So  he  went  about  doing  good,  and 
helping  whenever  he  saw  need.  Perhaps 
many  a  poor  woman  may  have  thought 
that  the  beautiful  youth  was  almost  like  an 
angel  sent  by  God  to  relieve  her;  and  she 
may  not  have  been  far  wrong. 

When  the  war  was  over,  and  Greece  was 
a  free  country,  our  father  came  home,  and 


84  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

looked  about  him  again  to  see  what  he  could 
do  to  help  others.  He  talked  with  a  friend 
of  his,  Dr.  Fisher,  and  they  decided  that 
they  would  give  their  time  to  helping  the 
blind,  who  needed  help  greatly.  There  were 
no  schools  for  them  in  those  days ;  and  if  a 
child  was  blind,  it  must  sit  with  folded  hands 
and  learn  nothing. 

Our  father  found  several  blind  children, 
and  took  them  to  his  home  and  taught  them. 
By  and  by  some  kind  friends  gave  money,  and 
one  —  Colonel  Perkins  —  gave  a  fine  house 
to  be  a  school  for  these  children  and  others  ; 
and  that  was  the  beginning  of  the  Perkins 
Institution  for  the  Blind,  now  a  great  school 
where  many  blind  boys  and  girls  learn 
to  read  and  study,  and  to  play  on  various 
instruments,  and  to  help  themselves  and 
others  in  the  world. 

Our  father  always  said,  "  Help  people  to 
help  themselves ;  don't  accustom  them  to 
being  helped  by  others."  Another  saying 
of  his,  perhaps  his  favorite  one,  next  to  the 
familiar  "  Let  justice  be  done,  if  the  heav 
ens  fall !"  was  this:  "Obstacles  are  things 


OUR  FATHER.  85 

to  be  overcome."  Indeed,  this  was  one  of 
the  governing  principles  of  his  life ;  and 
there  were  few  obstacles  that  did  not  go 
down  before  that  keen  lance  of  his,  always 
in  rest  and  ready  for  a  charge. 

When  our  father  first  began  his  work  in 
philanthropy,  some  of  his  friends  used  to 
laugh  at  him,  and  call  him  Don  Quixote. 
Especially  was  this  the  case  when  he  took  up 
the  cause  of  the  idiotic  and  weak-minded,  and 
vowed  that  instead  of  being  condemned  to 
live  like  animals,  and  be  treated  as  such,  they 
should  have  their  rights  as  human  beings, 
and  should  be  taught  all  the  more  carefully 
and  tenderly  because  their  minds  were  weak 
and  helpless. 

"  What  do  you  think  Howe  is  going  to 
do  now  ?  "  cried  one  gentleman  to  another, 
merrily.  "  He  is  going  to  teach  the  idiots, 
ha,  ha,  ha !  "  and  they  both  laughed  heartily, 
and  thought  it  a  very  good  joke.  But  peo 
ple  soon  ceased  to  laugh  when  they  saw  the 
helpless  creatures  beginning  to  help  them 
selves  ;  saw  the  girls  learning  to  sew  and  the 
boys  to  work ;  saw  light  gradually  come  into 


86  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

the  vacant  eyes  (dim  and  uncertain  light  it 
might  be,  but  how  much  better  than  blank 
darkness !),  and  strength  and  purpose  to  the 
nerveless  fingers. 

So  the  School  for  Feeble-minded  Children 
was  founded,  and  has  been  ever  since  a 
pleasant  place,  full  of  hope  and  cheer ;  and 
when  people  found  that  this  Don  Quixote 
knew  very  well  the  difference  between  a 
giant  and  a  windmill,  and  that  he  always 
brought  down  his  giants,  they  soon  ceased 
to  laugh,  and  began  to  wonder  and  ad 
mire. 

All  my  readers  have  probably  heard  about 
Laura  Bridgman,  whom  he  found  a  little 
child,  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind,  knowing  no 
more  than  an  animal,  and  how  he  taught  her 
to  read  and  write,  to  talk  with  her  fingers, 
and  to  become  an  earnest,  thoughtful,  indus- 
trious  woman.  It  is  a  wonderful  story  ;  but 
it  has  already  been  told,  and  will  soon  be 
still  more  fully  told,  so  I  will  not  dwell  upon 
it  now. 

But  I  hope  you  will  all  read,  some  day,  a 
Life  of  our  father,  and  learn  about  all  the 


OUR  FATHER.  8/ 

things  he  did,  for  it  needs  a  whole  volume 
to  tell  them. 

But  it   is   especially  as  our  father  that   I 
want  to  describe  this  great  and  good  man. 
I    suppose   there    never  was    a   tenderer   or 
kinder  father.      He  liked  to  make  compan 
ions  of  his  children,  and  was  never  weary  of 
having  us  "  tagging  "  at  his  heels.     We  fol 
lowed   him  about  the   garden  like  so  many 
little  dogs,  watching  the  pruning  or  grafting 
which  were  his  special  tasks.     We  followed 
him  up  into  the  wonderful  pear-room,  where 
were  many  chests  of  drawers,  every  drawer 
full    of    pears   lying   on    cotton-wool.      Our 
father  watched   their   ripening   with   careful 
heed,  and  told   us  many   things  about  their 
growth  and  habits.     We  learned  about  the 
Cure    pear,   which,    one    fancied,    had    been 
named    for   an  old    gentleman   with  a  long 
and  waving  nose  ;  and  about  the  Duchesse 
d'Angouleme,  which  suggested,  in  appearance 
as  in   name,  a  splendid  dame   in   gold   and 
crimson  velvet.      Then   there  were  all   the 
Beurres,  from  the  pale  beauty  of  the  Beurre 
Diel  to  the  Beurre  Bosc  in  its  coat  of  rich 


88  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

russet,  and  the  Easter  Beurre,  latest  of  all. 
There,  too,  was  the  Winter  Nelis, —  which 
we  persisted  in  calling  "  Winter  Nelly,"  and 
regarded  as  a  friend  of  our  own  age,  though 
this  never  prevented  us  from  eating  her  with 
delight  whenever  occasion  offered,  —  and  the 
Glout  Morceau,  and  the  Doyenne  d'Ete,  and 
hundreds  more.  Julia's  favorite  was  always 
the  Bartlett,  which  appealed  to  her  both  by 
its  beauty  and  its  sweetness ;  but  Flossy 
always  held,  and  Laura  held  with  her,  and 
does  hold,  and  will  hold  till  she  dies,  that  no 
pear  is  to  be  named  in  the  same  breath  with 
the  Louise  Bonne  de  Jersey. 

Oh  good  Louise,  you  admirable  woman, 
for  whom  this  green-coated  ambrosia  was 
named !  what  a  delightful  person  you  must 
have  been !  How  sweetness  and  piquancy 
must  have  mingled  in  your  adorable  dispo 
sition  !  Happy  was  the  man  who  called  you 
his !  happy  was  the  island  of  Jersey,  which 
saw  you  and  your  pears  ripening  and  mel 
lowing  side  by  side! 

I  must  not  leave  the  pear-room  without 
mentioning  the  beloved  Strawberry  Book, 


OUR  FATHER.  89 

which  was  usually  to  be  found  there,  and 
over  which  we  children  used  to  pore  by  the 
hour  together.  "  Fruits  of  America "  was 
its  real  name,  but  we  did  not  care  for  that ; 
we  loved  it  for  its  brilliant  pictures  of  straw 
berries  and  all  other  fruits,  and  perhaps  even 
more  for  the  wonderful  descriptions  which 
were  really  as  satisfying  as  many  an  actual 
feast  Was  it  not  almost  as  good  as  eating 
a  pear,  to  read  these  words  about  it :  — 

"  Skin  a  rich  golden  yellow,  dappled  with  orange 
and  crimson,  smooth  and  delicate  ;  flesh  smooth, 
melting,  and  buttery  ;  flavor  rich,  sprightly,  vinous, 
and  delicious !  " 

Almost  as  good,  I  say,  but  not  quite ;  and 
it  is  pleasant  to  recall  that  we  seldom  left 
the  pear-room  empty-handed. 

Then  there  was  his  own  room,  where  we 
could  examine  the  wonderful  drawers  of  his 
great  bureau,  and  play  with  the"picknickles" 
and  "  bucknickles."  I  believe  our  father 
invented  these  words.  They  were  —  well, 
all  kinds  of  pleasant  little  things,  —  amber 
mouthpieces,  and  buckles  and  bits  of  enamel, 
and  a  wonderful  Turkish  pipe,  and  seals  and 


90  WHEX  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

wax,  and  some  large  pins  two  inches  long 
which  were  great  treasures.  On  his  writing- 
table  were  many  clean  pens  in  boxes,  which 
you  could  lay  out  in  patterns ;  and  a  sand 
box —  very  delightful !  We  were  never  tired 
of  pouring  the  fine  black  sand  into  our 
hands,  where  it  felt  so  cool  and  smooth,  and 
then  back  again  into  the  box  with  its  holes 
arranged  star-fashion.  And  to  see  him  shake 
sand  over  his  paper  when  he  wrote  a  letter, 
and  then  pour  it  back  in  a  smooth  stream, 
while  the  written  lines  sparkled  and  seemed 
to  stand  up  from  the  page!  Ah,  blotting- 
paper  is  no  doubt  very  convenient,  but  I 
should  like  to  have  a  sand-box,  nevertheless ! 
I  cannot  remember  that  our  father  was 
ever  out  of  patience  when  we  pulled  his 
things  about.  He  had  many  delightful 
stories,  —  one  of  "  Jacky  Nory,"  which  had 
no  end,  and  went  on  and  on,  through  many 
a  walk  and  garden  prowl.  Often,  too,  he 
would  tell  us  of  his  own  pranks  when  he 
was  a  little  boy,  —  how  they  used  to  tease  an 
old  Portuguese  sailor  with  a  wooden  leg,  and 
how  the  old  man  would  get  very  angry,  and 


OUR  FATHER.  9 1 

cry  out,  "  Calabash  me  rompe  you  !  "  mean 
ing,  "  I  '11  break  your  head  !  "  How  when  he 
was  a  student  in  college,  and  ought  to  have 
known  better,  he  led  the  president's  old  horse 
upstairs  and  left  him  in  an  upper  room  of 
one  of  the  college  buildings,  where  the  poor 
beast  astonished  the  passers-by  by  putting 
his  head  out  of  the  windows  and  neighing. 
And  then  our  father  would  shake  his  head 
and  say  he  was  a  very  naughty  boy,  and 
Harry  must  never  do  such  things.  (But 
Harry  did  !) 

He  loved  to  play  and  romp  with  us.  Some 
times  he  would  put  on  his  great  fur-coat, 
and  come  into  the  dining-room  at  dancing- 
time,  on  all-fours,  growling  horribly,  and 
pursue  us  into  corners,  we  shrieking  with 
delighted  terror.  Or  he  would  sing  for  us, 
sending  us  into  fits  of  laughter,  for  he  had 
absolutely  no  ear  for  music.  There  was  one 
tune  which  he  was  quite  sure  he  sang  cor 
rectly,  but  no  one  could  recognize  it.  At 
last  he  said,  "  Oh  —  Su-sanna. !  "  and  then  we 
all  knew  what  the  tune  was.  "  Hail  to  the 
Chief ! "  was  his  favorite  song,  and  he  sang 


92  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

it  with  great  spirit  and  fervor,  though  the 
air  was  strictly  original,  and  very  peculiar. 
When  he  was  tired  of  romping  or  carrying 
us  on  his  shoulder,  he  would  say,  "  No ;  no 
more  !  I  have  a  bone  in  my  leg  !  "  which 
excuse  was  accepted  by  us  little  ones  in  per 
fect  good  faith,  as  we  thought  it  some  mys 
terious  but  painful  malady. 

If  our  father  had  no  ear  for  music,  he  had 
a  fine  one  for  metre,  and  read  poetry  aloud 
very  beautifully.  His  voice  was  melodious 
and  ringing,  and  we  were  thrilled  with  his 
own  enthusiasm,  as  he  read  to  us  from  Scott 
or  Byron,  his  favorite  poets.  I  never  can 
read  "  The  Assyrian  came  down,"  without 
hearing  the  ring  of  his  voice  and  seeing  the 
fla>h  of  his  blue  eyes  as  he  recited  the  spK-n- 
did  lines.  He  had  a  great  liking  for  Pope, 
too  (as  I  wish  more  people  had  nowadays), 
and  for  Butler's  "  Hudibras,"  which  he  \\.IN 
constantly  quoting.  He  commonly,  \\lun 
riding,  wore  but  one  spur,  giving  1  ludibras's 
reason,  that  if  one  side  of  the  horse  went, 
the  other  must  perforce  go  with  it ;  and  how 
often,  on  some  early  morning  walk  or  ride, 
have  I  heard  him  say, — 


OUR  FATHER.  93 

**  And,  like  a  lobster  boiled,  the  morn 
From  black  to  red  began  to  turn." 

Or   if  war  or   fighting  were   mentioned,  he 
would  often  cry,  — 

"  Ay  me  !  what  perils  do  environ 
The  man  that  meddles  with  cold  iron  ! " 

I  must  not  leave  the  subject  of  reading 
without  speaking  of  his  reading  of  the  Bible, 
which  was  most  impressive.  No  one  who 
ever  heard  him  read  morning  prayers  at  the 
Institution  (which  he  always  did  until  his 
health  failed  in  later  years)  can  have  forgot 
ten  the  grave,  melodious  voice,  the  »reverent 
tone,  the  majestic  head  bent  above  the  sacred 
book.  Nor  was  it  less  impressive  when  on 
Sunday  afternoons  he  read  to  us,  his  children. 
He  would  have  us  read,  too,  allowing  us  to 
choose  our  favorite  psalms  or  other  passages. 

He  was  an  early  riser,  and  often  shared 
our  morning  walks.  Each  child,  as  soon 
as  it  was  old  enough,  was  taught  to  ride ; 
and  the  rides  before  breakfast  with  him 
are  things  never  to  be  forgotten.  He  took 
one  child  at  a  time,  so  that  all  in  turn  might 
have  the  pleasure.  It  seems  hardly  longer 


94  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

ago  than  yesterday,  —  the  coming  downstairs 
in  the  cool,  dewy  morning,  nibbling  a 
cracker  for  fear  of  hunger,  springing  into 
the  saddle,  the  little  black  mare  shaking  her 
head,  impatient  to  be  off ;  the  canter  through 
the  quiet  streets,  where  only  an  early  milk 
man  or  baker  was  to  be  seen,  though  on  our 
return  we  should  find  them  full  of  boys,  who 
pointed  the  finger  and  shouted,  — 

"  Lady  on  a  hossback, 
Row,  row,  row  !  " 

then  out  into  the  pleasant  country,  gallop 
ing  over  the  smooth  road,  or  pacing  quietly 
under  shady  trees.  Our  father  was  a  superb 
rider;  indeed,  he  never  seemed  so  absolutely 
at  home  as  in  the  saddle.  He  was  very  par 
ticular  about  our  holding  whip  and  reins  in 
the  right  way. 

Speaking  of  his  riding  reminds  me  of  a 
story  our  mother  used  to  tell  us.  When 
Julia  was  a  baby,  they  were  travelling  in 
Italy,  driving  in  an  old-fashioned  travelling- 
carriage.  One  day  they  stopped  at  the  door 
of  an  inn,  and  our  father  went  in  to  make 
some  inquiries.  While  he  was  gone,  the 


OUR  FATHER.  95 

rascally  driver  thought  it  a  good  opportunity 
for  him  to  slip  in  at  the  side  door  to  get 
a  draught  of  wine ;  and,  the  driver  gone, 
the  horses  saw  that  here  was  their  opportu 
nity  ;  so  they  took  it,  and  ran  away  with  our 
mother,  the  baby,  and  nurse  in  the  carriage. 

Our  father,  hearing  the  sound  of  wheels, 
came  out,  caught  sight  of  the  driver's  guilty 
face  peering  round  the  corner  in  affright, 
and  at  once  saw  what  had  happened.  He 
ran  at  full  speed  along  the  road  in  the  di 
rection  in  which  the  horses  were  headed. 
Rounding  a  corner  of  the  mountain  which 
the  road  skirted,  he  saw  at  a  little  distance  a 
country  wagon  coming  slowly  toward  him, 
drawn  by  a  stout  horse,  the  wagoner  half 
asleep  on  the  seat.  Instantly  our  father's 
resolve  was  taken.  He  ran  up,  stopped  the 
horse,  unhitched  him  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  leaped  upon  his  back,  and  was  off  like  a 
flash,  before  the  astonished  driver,  who  was 
not  used  to  two-legged  whirlwinds,  could 
utter  a  word. 

Probably  the  horse  was  equally  astonished  : 
but  he  felt  a  master  on  his  back,  and,  urged 


96  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

by  hand  and  voice,  he  sprang  to  his  topmost 
speed,  galloped  bravely  on,  and  soon  over 
took  the  lumbering  carriage-horses,  which 
were  easily  stopped.  No  one  was  hurt, 
though  our  mother  and  the  nurse  had  of 
course  been  sadly  frightened.  The  horses 
were  turned,  and  soon  they  came  in  sight  of 
the  unhappy  countryman,  still  sitting  on  his 
wagon,  petrified  with  astonishment.  He 
received  a  liberal  reward,  and  probably  re 
gretted  that  there  were  no  more  mad  Ameri 
cans  to  "  steal  a  ride,"  and  pay  for  it. 

This  presence  of  mind,  this  power  of  act 
ing  on  the  instant,  was  one  of  our  father's 
great  qualities.  It  was  this  that  made  him, 
when  the  wounded  Greek  sank  down  before 
him  — 

"...  fling  him  from  his  saddle, 
And  place  the  stranger  there." 

It  was  this,  when  arrested  and  imprisoned 
by  the  Prussian  government  on  suspicion  of 
befriending  unhappy  Poland,  that  taught  him 
what  to  do  with  the  important  papers  he 
carried.  In  the  minute  during  which  he  was 
left  alone,  before  the  official  came  to  search 


OUR  FATHER,  99 

him,  he  thrust  the  documents  up  into  the 
hollow  head  of  a  bust  of  the  King  of  Prussia 
which  stood  on  a  shelf;  then  tore  some  un 
important  papers  into  the  smallest  possible 
fragments,  and  threw  them  into  a  basin  of 
water  which  stood  close  at  hand. 

Next  day  the  fragments  carefully  pasted  to 
gether  were  shown  to  him,  hours  having  been 
spent  in  the  painful  and  laborious  task ;  but 
nobody  thought  of  looking  for  more  papers 
in  the  head  of  King  Friedrich  Wilhelm. 

Our  father,  though  nothing  could  be  proved 
against  him,  might  have  languished  long  in 
that  Prussian  prison  had  it  not  been  for  the 
exertions  of  a  fellow-countryman.  This  gen 
tleman  had  met  him  in  the  street  the  day 
before,  had  asked  his  address,  and  promised 
to  call  on  him.  Inquiring  for  him  next  day 
at  the  hotel,  he  was  told  that  no  such  person 
was  or  had  been  there.  Instantly  suspecting 
foul  play,  this  good  friend  went  to  the  Amer 
ican  minister,  and  told  his  story.  The  min 
ister  took  up  the  matter  warmly,  and  called 
upon  the  Prussian  officials  to  give  up  his 
countryman.  This,  after  repeated  denials  of 


100  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE, 

any  knowledge  of  the  affair,  they  at  length 
reluctantly  consented  to  do.  Our  father 
was  taken  out  of  prison  at  night,  placed  in  a 
carriage,  and  driven  across  the  border  into 
France,  where  he  was  dismissed  with  a  warn 
ing  never  to  set  foot  in  Prussia  again. 

One  day,  I  remember,  we  were  sitting  at 
the  dinner-table,  when  a  messenger  came 
flying,  "  all  wild  with  haste  and  fear,"  to  say 
that  a  fire  had  broken  out  at  the  Institution. 
Now,  in  those  days  there  lay  between  Green 
Peace  and  the  Institution  a  remnant  of  the 
famous  Washington  Heights,  where  Wash 
ington  and  his  staff  had  once  made  their 
camp. 

Much  of  the  high  ground  had  already  been 
dug  away,  but  there  still  remained  a  great 
hill  sloping  back  and  up  from  the  garden 
wall,  and  terminating,  on  the  side  toward  the 
Institution,  in  an  abrupt  precipice,  some  sixty 
feet  high.  The  bearer  of  the  bad  news  had 
been  forced  to  come  round  by  way  of  several 
streets,  thus  losing  precious  minutes ;  but  the 
Doctor  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  lose  a 
minute.  Before  any  one  could  speak  or  ask 


OUR  FATHER.  IOI 

what  he  would  do  he  was  out  of  the  house, 
ran  through  the  garden,  climbed  the  slope  at 
the  back,  rushed  like  a  flame  across  the  green 
hill-top,  and  slid  down  the  almost  perpendic 
ular  face  of  the  precipice !  Bruised  and 
panting,  he  reached  the  Institution  and  saw 
at  a  glance  that  the  fire  was  in  the  upper 
story.  Take  time  to  go  round  to  the  door 
and  up  the  stairs  ?  Not  he !  He  "  swarmed  " 
up  the  gutter-spout,  and  in  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  tell  it  was  on  the  roof,  and  cutting 
away  at  the  burning  timbers  with  an  axe, 
which  he  had  got  hold  of  no  one  knows  how. 
That  fire  was  put  out,  as  were  several  others 
at  which  our  father  assisted. 

Fire  is  swift,  but  it  could  not  get  ahead  of 
the  Doctor. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  stories ;  but,  as  I 
said,  it  needs  a  volume  to  tell  all  about  our 
father's  life.  I  cannot  tell  in  this  short  space 
how  he  worked  with  the  friends  of  liberty  to 
free  the  slave ;  how  he  raised  the  poor  and 
needy,  and  "  helped  them  to  help  them 
selves  ; "  how  he  was  a  light  to  the  blind, 
and  to  all  who  walked  in  darkness,  whether 


102  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  ACE. 

of  sorrow,  sin,  or  suffering.  Most  men,  ab 
sorbed  in  such  high  works  as  these  would 
have  found  scant  leisure  for  family  life  and 
communion ;  but  no  finger-ache  of  our 
father's  smallest  child  ever  escaped  his  lov 
ing  care,  no  childish  thought  or  wish  ever 
failed  to  win  his  sympathy.  We  who  had 
this  high  privilege  of  being  his  children 
love  to  think  of  him  as  the  brave  soldier, 
the  wise  physician,  the  great  philanthropist; 
but  dearest  of  all  is  the  thought  of  him  as 
our  loving  and  tender  father. 

And  now,  to  end  this  chapter,  you  shall 
hear  what  Mr.  Whittier,  the  noble  and  hon 
ored  poet,  thought  of  this  friend  of  his :  — 

THE   HERO. 

"  OH  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear; 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear! 

"  Oh  for  the  white  plume  floating 
Sad  Zutphen's  field  above,  — 
The  lion  heart  in  battle, 
The  woman's  heart  in  love  I 


OUR  FATHER.  103 

*'  Oh  that  man  once  more  were  manly, 
Woman's  pride  and  not  her  scorn; 
That  once  more  the  pale  young  mother 
Dared  to  boast  '  a  man  is  born  ' ! 

"  But  now  life's  slumberous  current 

No  sun-bowed  cascade  wakes; 
No  tall,  heroic  manhood 
The  level  dullness  breaks. 

"  Oh  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear ! 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear !  " 

Then  I  said,  my  own  heart  throbbing 

To  the  time  her  proud  pulse  beat, 
"  Life  hath  its  regal  natures  yet,  — 
True,  tender,  brave,  and  sweet ! 

"  Smile  not,  fair  unbeliever  ! 
One  man  at  least  I  know 
Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard, 
Or  Sidney's  plume  of  snow. 

"  Once,  when  over  purple  mountains 

Died  away  the  Grecian  sun, 
And  the  far  Cyllenian  ranges 

Paled  and  darkened  one  by  one,  — 

"  Fell  the  Turk,  a  bolt  of  thunder, 

Cleaving  all  the  quiet  sky ; 
And  against  his  sharp  steel  lightnings 
Stood  the  Suliote  but  to  die. 


104  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

"Woe  for  the  weak  and  halting! 

The  crescent  blazed  behind 
A  curving  line  of  sabres 
Like  fire  before  the  wind ! 

M  Last  to  fly  and  first  to  rally, 
Rode  he  of  whom  I  speak, 
When,  groaning  in  his  bridle-path, 
Sank  down  a  wounded  Greek,  — 

••  With  the  rich  Albanian  costume 
Wet  with  many  a  ghastly  stain, 
Gazing  on  earth  and  sky  as  one 
Who  might  not  gaze  again  ! 

"  He  looked  forward  to  the  mountains, 

Back  on  foes  that  never  spare ; 
Then  flung  him  from  his  saddle, 
And  placed  the  stranger  there. 

•* '  Alia  !  hu ! '    Through  flashing  sabres, 

Through  a  stormy  hail  of  lead, 
The  good  Thessalian  charger 
Up  the  slopes  of  olives  sped. 

*  Hot  spurred  the  turbaned  riders,  — 

He  almost  felt  their  breath, 
Where  a  mountain  stream  rolled  darkly  down 
Between  the  hills  and  death. 

"  One  brave  and  manful  struggle,  — 

He  gained  the  solid  land, 
And  the  cover  of  the  mountains 
And  the  carbines  of  his  band." 


OUR  FATHER.  IO5 

«*  It  was  very  brave  and  noble," 

Said  the  moist-eyed  listener  then  ; 
"But  one  brave  deed  makes  no  hero: 
Tell  me  what  he  since  hath  been  ? " 

"  Still  a  brave  and  generous  manhood, 

Still  an  honor  without  stain, 
In  the  prison  of  the  Kaiser, 
By  the  barricades  of  Seine. 

"  But  dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true  ; 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 
Than  battle  ever  knew. 

u  Wouldst  know  him  now  ?     Behold  him, 

The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 
Giving  the  dumb  lip  language, 
The  idiot  clay  a  mind  ; 

"  Walking  his  round  of  duty 

Serenely  day  by  day, 
With  the  strong  man's  hand  of  labor, 
And  childhood's  heart  of  play  ; 

"True  as  the  knights  of  story, 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 
Brave  in  his  calm  endurance 
As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

"As  waves  in  stillest  waters. 

As  starsjn  noon-day  skies, 
All  that  wakes  to  noble  action 
In  his  noon  of  calmness  lies. 


106  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

M  Wherever  outraged  nature 

Asks  word  or  action  brave ; 
Wherever  struggles  labor, 
Wherever  groans  a  slave ; 

•*  Wherever  rise  the  peoples, 

Wherever  sinks  a  throne,  — 
The  throbbing  heart  of  Freedom  finds 
An  answer  in  his  own  ! 

u  Knight  of  a  better  era, 

Without  reproach  or  fear  I 
Said  I  not  well  that  Bayards 
And  Sidneys  still  are  here  ?" 


CHAPTER   VI. 

JULIA    WARD. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  in  a  great  house  stand 
ing  at  the  corner  of  Bond  Street  and  Broad 
way,  New  York  city,  there  lived  a  little  girl. 
She  was  named  Julia,  after  her  lovely  young 
mother ;  but  as  she  grew  she  showed  no  re 
semblance  to  that  mother,  with  her  great 
dark  eyes  and  wealth  of  black  ringlets. 
This  little  girl  had  red  hair,  and  that 
was  a  dreadful  thing  in  those  days.  Very 
fine,  soft  hair  it  was,  thick  and  wavy,  but  — 
it  was  red.  Visitors,  coming  to  see  her 
mother,  would  shake  their  heads  and  say, 
"Poor  little  Julia!  what  a  pity  she  has  red 
hair ! "  and  the  tender  mother  would  sigh, 
and  regret  that  her  child  should  have  this 
misfortune,  when  there  was  no  red  hair  in 
the  family  so  far  as  one  knew.  And  the 
beautiful  hair  was  combed  with  a  leaden 


108  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

comb,  as  one  old  lady  said  that  would  turn 
it  dark  ;  and  it  \vas  soaked  in  honey-water,  as 
another  old  lady  said  that  was  really  the  best 
thing  you  could  do  with  it;  and  the  little 
Julia  felt  that  she  might  almost  as  well  be  a 
hunchback  or  a  cripple  as  that  unfortunate 
creature,  a  red-haired  child. 

When  she  was  six  years  old,  her  beautiful 
mother  died ;  and  after  that  Julia  and  her 
brothers  and  sisters  were  brought  up  by  their 
good  aunt,  who  came  to  make  her  home  with 
them  and  their  father.  A  very  good  aunt 
she  was,  and  devoted  to  the  motherless  chil 
dren  ;  but  sometimes  she  did  funny  things. 
They  went  out  to  ride  every  day — the  chil 
dren,  I  mean  —  in  a  great  yellow  chariot 
lined  with  fine  blue  cloth.  Now,  it  occurred 
to  their  kind  aunt  that  it  would  have  a 
charming  effect  if  the  children  were  dn> 
to  match  the  chariot.  So  thought,  so  done  ! 
Dressmakers  and  milliners  plied  their  art ; 
and  one  day  Broad \v ay  was  electrified  by  the 
sight  of  the  little  Misses  Ward,  seated  in 
uneasy  state  on  the  blue  cushions,  clad  in 
wonderful  raiment  of  yellow  and  blue.  They 


JULIA  WARD  AND  HER  BROTHERS,  AS  CHILDREN. 

(From  a  miniature  by  Miss  Anne  Hall.) 


JULIA    WARD.  Ill 

had  blue  pelisses  and  yellow  satin  bonnets. 
And  this  was  all  very  well  for  the  two  younger 
ones,  with  their  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and  their 
rosy  cheeks ;  but  Julia,  young  as  she  was, 
felt  dimly  that  blue  and  yellow  was  not  the 
combination  to  set  off  her  tawny  locks  and 
exquisite  sea-shell  complexion.  It  is  not 
probable,  however,  that  she  sorrowed  deeply 
over  the  funny  clothes ;  for  her  mind  was 
never  set  on  clothes,  either  in  childhood  or 
in  later  life.  Did  not  her  sister  meet  her 
one  day  coming  home  from  school  with  one 
blue  shoe  and  one  green  ?  Her  mind  was 
full  of  beautiful  thoughts ;  her  eyes  were 
lifted  to  the  green  trees  and  the  blue  sky 
bending  above  them :  what  did  she  care 
about  shoes?  Yes;  and  later  is  it  not  re 
corded  that  her  sisters  had  xgreat  difficulty 
in  persuading  her  to  choose  the  stuff  for 
her  wedding-gown  ?  So  indifferent  was  she 
to  all  matters  of  dress  ! 

Auntie  F.  had  her  own  ideas  about  shoes 
and  stockings,  —  not  the  color,  but  the  quality 
of  them.  She  did  not  believe  in  "  pompey- 
ing"the  children;  so  in  the  coldest  winter 


112  WHEN  1   WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

weather  Julia  and  her  sisters  went  to  school 
in  thin  slippers  and  white  cotton  stockings. 
You  shiver  at  the  bare  thought  of  this,  my 
girl  readers!  You  look  at  your  comfortable 
leggings  and  overshoes  (that  is,  if  you  live 
in  upper  New  England,  or  anywhere  in  the 
same  latitude),  and  wonder  how  the  Ward 
children  lived  through  such  a  course  of 
"hardening"!  But  they  did  live,  and  Julia 
seems  now  far  younger  and  stronger  than 
any  of  her  children. 

School,  which  some  children  regard  with 
mingled  feelings  (or  so  I  have  been  told), 
was  a  delight  to  Julia.  She  grasped  at 
knowledge  with  both  hands,  —  plucked  it  as 
a  little  child  plucks  flowers,  with  unweary 
ing  enjoyment.  Her  teachers,  like  the  "peo 
ple  "  in  the  case  of  the 

*'  Young  lady  whose  eyes 
Were  unique  as  to  color  and  size," 

all  turned  aside,  and  started  away  in  surprise, 
as  this  little  red-haired  girl  went  on  learning 
and  learning  and  learning.  At  nine  years 
old  she  was  studying  Paley's  "Moral  Phi 
losophy,"  with  girls  of  sixteen  and  eighteen. 


JULIA    WARD.  113 

She  could  not  have  been  older  when  she 
heard  a  class  reciting  an  Italian  lesson,  and 
fell  in  love  with  the  melodious  language. 
She  listened,  and  listened  again ;  then  got  a 
grammar  and  studied  secretly,  and  one  day 
handed  to  the  astonished  Italian  teacher  a 
letter  correctly  written  in  Italian,  begging 
that  she  might  join  the  class. 

When  I  was  speaking  of  the  good  aunt 
who  was  a  second  mother  to  the  Ward  chil 
dren,  I  meant  to  say  a  word  of  the  stern  but 
devoted  father  who  was  the  principal  figure 
in  Julia's  early  life.  She  says  of  him  :  "  He 
was  a  majestic  person,  of  somewhat  severe 
aspect  and  reserved  manners,  but  with  a  vein 
of  true  geniality  and  a  great  benevolence 
of  heart."  And  she  adds:  "  His  great  grav 
ity,  and  the  absence  of  a  mother,  naturally 
subdued  the  tone  of  the  whole  household; 
and  though  a  greatly  cherished  set  of  chil 
dren,  we  were  not  a  very  merry  one." 

Still,  with  all  his  gravity,  Grandfather 
Ward  had  his  gleams  of  fun  occasionally. 
It  is  told  that  Julia  had  a  habit  of  dropping 
off  her  slippers  while  at  table.  One  day  her 


114  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

father  felt  a  wandering  shell  of  kid,  with  no 
foot  to  keep  it  steady.  He  put  his  own  foot 
on  it  and  moved  it  under  his  chair,  then  said 
in  his  deep,  grave  voice,  "My  daughter,  will 
you  bring  me  my  seals,  which  I  have  left  on 
the  table  in  my  room  ?  "  And  poor  Julia, 
after  a  vain  and  frantic  hunting  with  both 
feet,  was  forced  to  go,  crimson-cheeked, 
white-stockinged  and  slipperless,  on  the 
required  errand.  She  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  asking  for  the  shoe.  She  was 
the  eldest  daughter,  the  companion  and  joy 
of  this  sternly  loving  father.  She  always 
sat  next  him  at  table,  and  sometimes  he 
would  take  her  right  hand  in  his  left,  and 
hold  it  for  many  minutes  together,  continu 
ing  to  eat  his  dinner  with  his  right  hand  ; 
while  she  would  rather  go  dinnerless  than 
ask  him  to  release  her  own  fingers. 

Grandfather  Ward  !  It  is  a  relief  to  con 
fess  our  faults ;  and  it  may  be  my  duty  to  say 
that  as  soon  as  I  could  reach  it  on  tiptoe,  it 
was  my  joy  to  pull  the  nose  of  his  marble 
bust,  which  stood  in  the  great  dining-room 
at  Green  Peace.  It  was  a  fine,  smooth,  long 


JULIA    WARD.  115 

nose,  most  pleasant  to  pull ;  I  fear  I  soiled 
it  sometimes  with  my  little  grimy  fingers.  I 
trust  children  never  do  such  naughty  things 
nowadays. 

Then  there  was  Great-grandfather  Ward, 
Julia's  grandfather,  who  had  the  cradle 
and  the  great  round  spectacles.  Doubtless 
he  had  many  other  things  besides,  for  he 
was  a  substantial  New  York  merchant ;  but 
the  cradle  and  the  spectacles  are  the  only 
possessions  of  his  that  I  have  seen.  I  have 
the  cradle  now,  and  I  can  testify  that  Great 
grandfather  Ward  (for  I  believe  he  was 
rocked  in  it,  as  his  descendants  for  four  gen 
erations  since  have  been)  must  have  been 
an  extremely  long  baby.  It  is  a  fine  old 
affair,  of  solid  mahogany,  and  was  evidently 
built  to  last  as  long  as  the  Wards  should 
last.  Not  so  very  long  ago,  two  dear  people 
who  had  been  rocked  together  in  that  cradle 
fifty  —  or  is  it  sixty  ?  —  years  ago,  sat  down 
and  clasped  hands  over  it,  and  wept  for 
pure  love  and  tenderness  and  leal  souvenir. 
Not  less  pleasant  is  its  present  use  as  the 
good  ship  "  Pinafore,"  when  six  rosy,  shout- 


Il6  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

ing  children  tumble  into   it   and    rock   vio 
lently,  singing  with  might  and  main, — 

"  We  sail  the  ocean  blue, 
And  our  saucy  ship 's  a  beauty  !  " 

That  is  all  about  the  cradle. 

My  mother  writes  thus  of  Great-grand 
father  Ward,  her  own  grandfather :  — 

"  He  had  been  a  lieutenant-colonel  in  the  war  of 
American  Independence.  A  letter  from  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief  to  Governor  Samuel  Ward  (of 
Rhode  Island")  mentions  a  visit  from  "your  son,  a 
tall  young  man  of  soldierly  aspect"  I  cannot  quote 
the  exact  words.  My  grandfather  had  seen  service 
in  Arnold's  march  through  '  the  wilderness '  .to 
Quebec.  He  was  present  at  the  battle  of  Red 
Bank.  After  the  close  of  the  war  he  engaged  in 
commercial  pursuits,  and  made  a  voyage  to  India 
as  supercargo  of  a  merchant  vessel  belonging  to 
Moses  Brown,  of  Providence.  He  was  in  Paris  at 
the  time  of  the  king's  death  (Louis  XVI.),  and  for 
some  time  before  that  tragic  event  He  speaks  in 
his  journal  of  having  met  several  of  the  leading 
revolutionists  of  that  time  at  a  friend's  house,  and 
characterizes  them  as  '  exceeding  plain  men,  but 
very* zealous.'  He  passed  the  day  of  the  king's 
execution,  which  he  calls  '  one  of  horror,'  in  Ver 
sailles,  and  was  grieved  at  the  conduct  of  several 


LIEUT  .-CoL.  SAMUEL  WARD. 

Born  Nov   17,  1756      Died  Aug.  16,  1832. 


JULIA    WARD.  119 

Americans,  who  not  only  remained  in  town,  but 
also  attended  the  execution.  When  he  finally  left 
Paris,  a  proscribed  nobleman,  disguised  as  a  foot 
man,  accompanied  the  carriage,  and  so  cheated  the 
guillotine  of  one  expected  victim. 

"  Colonel  Ward,  as  my  grandfather  was  always 
called,  was  a  graduate  of  Brown  University,  and  a 
man  of  scholarly  tastes.  He  possessed  a  diamond 
edition  of  Latin  classics,  which  always  went  with 
him  in  his  campaigns,  and  which  is  still  preserved 
in  the  family.  In  matters  of  art  he  was  not  so  well 
posted.  Of  the  pictures  in  the  gallery  of  the  Lux 
embourg  he  remarks  in  his  diary:  'The  old  pic 
tures  are  considered  the  best,  I  cannot  think  why.' 

"  I  remember  him  as  very  tall,  stooping  a  little, 
with  white  hair  and  mild  blue  eyes,  which  matched 
well  his  composed  speech  and  manners." 

I  have  called  Great-grandfather  Ward  a 
merchant,  but  he  was  far  more  than  that. 
The  son  of  Governor  Ward  of  Rhode  Island, 
he  was  only  eighteen  when,  as  a  gallant  young 
captain,  he  marched  his  company  to  the 
siege  of  Boston ;  and  then  (as  his  grandson 
writes  me  to-day)  he  "  marched  through  the 
wilderness  of  Maine,  through  snow  and  ice, 
barefoot,  to  Quebec."  Some  of  my  readers 


120  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

may  possess  an  engraving  of  Trumbull's 
famous  painting  of  the  "  Attack  on  Quebec." 
Look  in  the  left-hand  corner,  and  you  will 
see  a  group  of  three,  —  one  of  them  a  young, 
active  figure  with  flashing  eyes ;  that  is 
Great-grandfather  Ward.  He  rose  to  be  ma 
jor,  then  lieutenant-colonel ;  was  at  Peeks- 
kill,  Valley  Forge,  and  Red  Bank,  and  wrote 
the  official  account  of  the  last-named  battle, 
which  may  be  found  in  Washington's  corre 
spondence.  Besides  being  a  good  man  and 
a  brave  soldier,  he  was  a  very  good  grand 
father;  and  this  made  it  all  the  more  naughty 
for  his  granddaughter  Julia  to  behave  as  she 
did  one  day.  Being  then  a  little  child,  she 
sat  down  at  the  piano,  placed  a  music-book 
on  the  rack,  and  began  to  pound  and  thump 
on  the  keys,  making  the  hideous  discord 
which  seems  always  to  afford  pleasure  to 
the  young.  Her  grandfather  was  sitting  by, 
book  in  hand ;  and  after  enduring  the  noise 
for  some  time  patiently,  he  said  in  his  kind, 
courtly  way,  "  Is  it  so  set  down  in  the  book, 
my  dear  ?  " 

"Yes,   Grandpapa!"  said   naughty   Julia, 


JULIA    WARD.  121 

and  went  on  banging;  while  grandpapa,  who 
made  no  pretense  of  being  a  musician,  offered 
no  further  comment  or  remonstrance. 

Julia  grew  up  a  student  and  a  dreamer. 
She  confesses  to  having  been  an  extremely 
absent  person,  and  much  of  the  time  uncon 
scious  of  what  passed  around  her.  "  In  the 
large  rooms  of  my  father's  house,"  she  says, 
"  I  walked  up  and  down,  perpetually  alone, 
dreaming  of  extraordinary  things  that  I 
should  see  and  do.  I  now  began  to  read 
Shakspere  and  Byron,  and  to  try  my  hand 
at  poems  and  plays."  She  rejoices  that  none 
of  the  productions  of  this  period  were  pub 
lished,  and  adds :  "  I  regard  it  as  a  piece  of 
great  good  fortune ;  for  a  little  praise  or  a 
little  censure  would  have  been  a  much  more 
disturbing  element  in  those  days  than  in 
these."  I  wish  these  sentiments  were  more 
general  with  young  writers. 

Still,  life  was  not  all  study  and  dreaming. 
There  were  sometimes  merrymakings:  wit 
ness  the  gay  ball  after  which  Julia  wrote  to 
her  brother,  "  I  have  been  through  the  burn 
ing  fiery  furnace;  and  I  am  Sad-rake,  Me- 


122  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

sick,  and  Abed-no-go."  There  was  mischief, 
too,  and  sometimes  downright  naughtiness. 
Who  was  the  poor  gentleman,  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  family,  from  whom  Julia  and 
her  sisters  extracted  a  promise  that  he  would 
eat  nothing  for  three  days  but  what  they 
should  send  him,  —  they  in  return  promising 
three  meals  a  day?  He  consented,  inno 
cently  thinking  that  these  dear  young  crea 
tures  wanted  to  display  their  skill  in  cookery, 
and  expecting  all  kinds  of  delicacies  and  airy 
dainties  of  pastry  and  confectionery.  Yes! 
and  being  a  man  of  his  word,  he  lived  for 
three  days  on  gruel,  of  which  those  "  clmr 
young  creatures  "  sent  him  a  bowl  at  morn 
ing,  noon,  and  night;  and  on  nothing  else! 

In  a  certain  little  cabinet  where  many 
precious  things  are  kept,  I  have  a  manuscript 
poem,  written  by  Julia  Ward  for  the  amuse 
ment  of  her  brothers  and  sisters  when  she 
was  still  a  very  young  girl.  It  is  called  "  The 
Ill-cut  Mantcll ;  A  Romaunt  of  the  time  of 
Kynge  Arthur."  The  story  is  an  old  one, 
but  the  telling  of  it  is  all  Julia's  own,  and 
I  must  quote  a  few  lines:  — 


JULIA    WARD.  123 

"I  cannot  well  describe  in  rhyme 
The  female  toilet  of  that  time. 
I  do  not  know  how  trains  were  carried, 
How  single  ladies  dressed  or  married; 
If  caps  were  proper  at  a  ball, 
Or  even  if  caps  were  worn  at  all; 
If  robes  were  made  of  crape  or  tulle, 
•  If  skirts  were  narrow,  gored,  or  full. 
Perhaps,  without  consulting  grace, 
The  hair  was  scraped  back  from  the  face, 
While  on  the  head  a  mountain  rose, 
Crowned,  like  Mont  Blanc,  with  endless  snows. 
It  may  be  that  the  locks  were  shorn ; 
It  may  be  that  the  lofty  puff, 
The  stomacher,  the  rising  ruff, 
The  bodice,  or  the  veil  were  worn. 
Perhaps  mantillas  were  the  passion, 
Perhaps  ferronieres  were  in  fashion, — 
I  cannot,  and  I  will  not  tell. 
But  this  one  thing  I  wot  full  well, 
That  every  lady  there  was  dressed 
In  what  she  thought  became  her  best. 
All  further  notices,  I  grieve, 
I  must  to  your  imagination  leave. " 

Julia  sometimes  tried  to  awaken  in  her  sis 
ters' minds  the  poetic  aspirations  which  rilled 
her  own.  One  day  she  found  the  two  little 
girls  playing  some  childish  game,  which 
seemed  to  her  unnecessarily  frivolous.  (You 
all  know,  I  am  sure,  the  eldest  sister's  motto, — 


124  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

"  Good  advice  and  counsel  sage, 
And  '  I  never  did  so  when  I  was  your  age ; ' " 

and  the  companion  sentiment  of  the  younger 
sister,  — 

" '  Sister,  don't ! '  and  '  Sister,  do ! ' 

And'4  Why  may  not  I  as  well  as  you  ? ' ")  • 

Miss  Ward,  —  she  was  always  called  Miss 
Ward,  poor  little  dear!  and  her  dolls  were 
taken  away  from  her  when  she  was  only  nine 
years  old,  that  she  might  better  feel  the  dig 
nity  of  her  position  !  —  Miss  Ward  rebuked 
the  little  sisters,  and  bade  them  lay  aside  their 
foolish  toys  and  improve  their  minds  by  com 
posing  poetry.  Louisa  shook  her  black  curls, 
and  would  not,  —  moreover,  did  not,  being 
herself  a  child  of  some  firmness.  But  little 
sweet  Annie  would  try,  to  please  Sister  Julia ; 
and  after  much  thought  and  labor  she  pro 
duced  the  following  pious  effusion  :  — 

"  He  feeds  the  ravens  when  they  call, 
And  stands  them  in  a  pleasant  hall." 

I  never  can  recall  these  lines  without  having 
an  instant  vision  of  a  pillared  hall,  fair  and 


JULIA  WARD. 


JULIA    WARD.  127 

stately,  with  ravens  standing  in  niches  along 
the  sides,  between  the  marble  columns ! 

So  this  maiden,  Julia,  grew  up  to  woman 
hood,  dreamy  and  absent,  absorbed  in  severe 
study  and  composition,  yet  always  ready  with 
the  brilliant  flashes  of  her  wit,  which  broke 
like  sunbeams  through  the  mist  of  dreams. 
She  was  very  fair  to  look  upon.  No  one 
now  pitied  her  for  the  glorious  crown  of 
red-gold  hair,  which  set  off  the  rose  and 
ivory  of  her  matchless  complexion ;  every 
one  recognized  and  acknowledged  in  her 
"stately  Julia,  queen  of  all." 

Once,  while  on  a  visit  to  Boston,  Julia 
heard  the  wonderful  story  of  Laura  Bridg- 
man,  who  had  just  been  led  out  of  darkness 
into  the  light  of  life  and  joy  by  a  certain 
Dr.  Howe,  a  man  of  whom  people  spoke  as 
a  modern  paladin  of  romance,  a  Roland  or 
Bayard.  She  saw  him,  and  felt  at  once  that 
he  was  the  most  remarkable  man  she  had 
ever  known.  He,  on  his  part,  saw  a  youth 
ful  prophetess,  radiant  and  inspired,  crowned 
with  golden  hair.  Acquaintance  ripened 
into  friendship,  friendship  into  love ;  and 


128  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

so  it  happened  that,  in  the  year  1843, 
Samuel  G.  Howe  and  Julia  Ward  were  mar 
ried.  The  next  chapter  shall  tell  you  of 
Julia  Ward  Howe,  as  we,  her  children,  have 
known  her. 


CHAPTER   VIk 

OUR    MOTHER. 

(MRS    JULIA   WARD  HOWE.) 

OUR  mother's  story  should  be  sung  rather 
than  said,  so  much  has  music  to  do  with  it. 
My  earliest  recollection  of  my  mother  is  of 
her  standing  by  the  piano  in  the  great  din 
ing-room,  dressed  in  black  velvet,  with  her 
beautiful  neck  and  arms  bare,  and  singing  to 
us.  Her  voice  was  a  very  rare  and  perfect 
one,  we  have  since  learned ;  we  knew  then 
only  that  we  did  not  care  to  hear  any  one 
else  sing  when  we  might  hear  her.  The 
time  for  singing  was  at  twilight,  when  the 
dancing  was  over,  and  we  gathered  breath 
less  and  exhausted  about  the  piano  for  the 
last  and  greatest  treat.  Then  the  beautiful 
voice  would  break  out,  and  flood  the  room 
with  melody,  and  fill  our  childish  hearts  with 
almost  painful  rapture.  Our  mother  knew  all 
the  songs  in  the  world,  —  that  was  our  firm 


130  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

belief.     Certainly  we  never  found  an  end  to 
her  repertory. 

There  were  German  student  songs,  which 
she  had  learned  from  her  brother  when  he 
came  back  from  Heidelberg,  —  merry,  jovial 
ditties,  with  choruses  of  "  Juvevallera! "  and 
"  Za  hi !  Za  he !  Za  ho-o-o-o-o-oh  !  "  in  which 
we  joined  with  boundless  enthusiasm.  There 
were  gay  little  French  songs,  all  ripple  and 
sparkle  and  trill;  and  soft,  melting  Italian 
serenades  and  barcaroles,  which  we  thought 
must  be  like  the  notes  of  the  nightingale. 
And  when  we  called  to  have  our  favorites 
repeated  again  and  again,  she  would  sing 
them  over  and  over  with  never  failing  pa 
tience  ;  and  not  one  of  us  ever  guessed,  as 
we  listened  with  all  our  souls,  that  the  cun 
ning  mother  was  giving  us  a  French  lesson, 
or  a  German  or  Italian  lesson,  as  the  case 
might  be,  and  that  what  was  learned  in  that 
way  would  never  be  forgotten  all  our  lives 
long. 

Besides  the  foreign  songs,  there  were  many 
songs  of  our  mother's  own  making,  which  we 
were  never  weary  of  hearing.  Sometimes 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


OUR  MOTHER.  133 

« 

she  composed  a  melody  for  some  old  ballad, 
but  more  often  the  words  and  music  both 
were  hers.  Where  were  such  nonsense-songs 
as  hers? 

"  Little  old  dog  sits  under  the  chair, 
Twenty-five  grasshoppers  snarled  in  his  hair. 
Little  old  dog's  beginning  to  snore, 
Mother  forbids  him  to  do  so  no  more." 

Or  again, — 

"  Hush,  my  darling,  don't  you  cry  ! 
Your  sweetheart  will  come  by  and  by. 
When  he  comes,  he'll  come  in  green, — 
That 's  a  sign  that  you  're  his  queen. 

"  Hush,  my  darling,  don't  you  cry  ! 
Your  sweetheart  will  come  by  and  by, 
When  he  comes,  he  '11  come  in  blue,  — 
That's  a  sign  that  he  '11  be  true." 

And  so  on  through  all  the  colors  of  the  rain 
bow,  till  finally  expectation  was  wrought  up 
to  the  highest  pitch  by  the  concluding  lines: 

"When  he  comes,  he'll  come  in  gray, — 
That's  a  sign  he  '11  come  to-day!  " 

Then  it  was  a  pleasant  thing  that  each 
child  could  have  his  or  her  own  particular 
song  merely  for  the  asking.  Laura  well  re- 


134  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 


' 


members   her   good-night   song,   which   was 
sung  to  the  very  prettiest  tune  in  the  world : 

"  Sleep,  my  little  child, 
So  gentle,  sweet,  and  mild! 
The  little  lamb  has  gone  to  rest, 
The  little  bird  is  in  its  nest,"  — 

"  Put  in  the  donkey !  "  cried  Laura,  at  this 
point  of  the  first  singing.  "  Please  put  in 
the  donkey !  "  So  the  mother  went  on,  — 

"The  little  donkey  in  the  stable 
Sleeps  as  sound  as  he  is  able ; 
All  things  now  their  rest  pursue, 
You  are  sleepy  too." 

It  was  with  this  song  sounding  softly  in 
her  ears,  and  with  the  beautiful  hand,  like 
soft  warm  ivory,  stroking  her  hair,  that 
Laura  used  to  fall  asleep.  Do  you  not  envy 
the  child? 

Maud's  songs  were  perhaps  the  loveliest 
of  all,  though  they  could  not  be  dearer  than 
my  donkey-song.  Here  is  one  of  them :  — 

M  Baby  with  the  hat  and  plume, 
And  the  scarlet  cloak  so  fine, 
Come  where  thnu  hast  rest  and  room, 
Little  baby  mine! 


OUR  MOTHER.  135 

"Whence  those  eyes  so  crystal  clear? 
Whence  those  curls,  so  silky  soft  ? 
Thou  art  Mother's  darling  dear, 
I  have  told  thee  oft. 

"  I  have  told  thee  many  times, 
And  repeat  it  yet  again, 
Wreathing  thee  about  with  rhymes 
Like  a  flowery  chain,  — 

"  Rhymes  that  sever  and  unite 
As  the  blossom  fetters  do, 
As  the  mother's  weary  night 
Happy  days  renew." 


Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  may  already 
know  the  lovely  verses  called  "  Baby's 
Shoes." 

"  Little  feet,  pretty  feet, 

Feet  of  fairy  Maud,  — 
Fair  and  fleet,  trim  and  neat, 
Carry  her  abroad  I 

"  Be  as  wings,  tiny  things, 

To  my  butterfly ; 
In  the  flowers,  hours  on  hours, 
Let  my  darling  lie. 

**  Shine  ye  must,  in  the  dust, 

Twinkle  as  she  runs, 
Threading  a  necklace  gay, 
Through  the  summer  suns. 


136  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

"  Stringing  days,  borrowing  phrase, 

Weaving  wondrous  plots, 
With  her  eyes  blue  and  wise 
As  forget-me-nots. 

"Cinderel,  grown  a  belle, 
Coming  from  her  ball, 
Frightened  much,  let  just  such 
A  tiny  slipper  fall. 

"If  men  knew  as  I  do 

Half  thy  sweets,  my  own, 
They  'd  not  delay  another  day,  — 
1  should  be  alone. 

M  Come  and  go,  friend  and  foe, 

Fairy  Prince  most  fine  ! 
Take  your  gear  otherwhere  1 
Maud  is  only  mine." 

But  it  was  not  all  singing,  of  course.  Our 
mother  read  to  us  a  great  deal  too,  and  told 
us  stories,  from  the  Trojan  War  down  to 
"  Puss  in  Boots."  It  was  under  her  care,  I 
think,  that  we  used  to  look  over  the  "Shak- 
spere  book."  This  was  a  huge  folio,  bound 
in  rusty-brown  leather,  and  containing  the 
famous  Boydell  prints  illustrating  the  plays 
of  Shakspere.  The  frontispiece  represented 
Shakspere  nursed  by  Tragedy  and  Comedy, — 


OUR  MOTHER.  137 

the  prettiest,  chubbiest  of  babies,  seated  on 
the  ground  with  his  little  toes  curled  up 
under  him,  while  a  lovely,  laughing  lady  bent 
down  to  whisper  in  his  ear;  and  another  one, 
grave  but  no  less  beautiful,  gazed  earnestly 
upon  him.  Then  came  the  "Tempest,"  — 
oh,  most  lovely!  The  first  picture  showed 
Ariel  dancing  along  the  "yellow  sands," 
while  Prospero  waved  him  on  with  a  com 
manding  gesture;  in  the  second,  Miranda, 
all  white  and  lovely,  was  coming  out  of  the 
darksome  cavern,  and  smiling  with  tender 
compassion  on  Ferdinand,  who  was  trying  to 
lift  an  impossible  log.  Then  there  was  the 
delicious  terror  of  the  "  Macbeth  "  pictures, 
with  the  witches  and  Banquo's  ghost.  But 
soon  our  mother  would  turn  the  page  and 
show  us  the  exquisite  figure  of  Puck,  sitting 
on  a  toadstool,  and  make  us  shout  with 
laughter  over  Nick  Bottom  and  his  rustic 
mates.  From  these  magic  pages  we  learned 
to  hate  Richard  III.  duly,  and  to  love  the 
little  princes,  whom  Northcote's  lovely  pic 
ture  showed  in  white-satin  doublet  and  hose, 
embracing  each  other,  while  the  wicked  un- 


WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

cle  glowered  at  them  from  behind ;  and  we 
wept  over  the  second  picture,  where  they  lay 
asleep,  unconscious  of  the  fierce  faces  bend 
ing  over  them.  Yes,  we  loved  the  "Shak- 
spere  book"  very  much. 

Sometimes  our  mother  would  give  us  a 
party,  —  and  that  was  sure  to  be  a  delight 
ful  affair,  with  charades  or  magic  lantern  or 
something  of  the  kind.  Here  is  an  account 
of  one  such  party,  written  by  our  mother 
herself  in  a  letter  to  her  sister,  which  lies 
before  me:  — 

"  My  guests  arrived  in  omnibus  loads  at  four 
o'clock.  My  notes  to  parents  concluded  with  the 
following  P.  S. :  '  Return  omnibus  provided,  with 
insurance  against  plum-cake  and  other  accidents.' 
A  donkey  carriage  afforded  great  amusement  out 
of  doors,  together  with  swing,  bowling-alley,  ami 
the  Great  Junk.  [I  have  not  mentioned  the  Junk 
yet,  but  you  shall  hear  of  it  in  good  time.]  While 
all  this  was  going  on,  the  H.'s,  J.  S.,  and  I  prepared 
a  theatrical  exhibition,  of  which  I  had  made  a 
hasty  outline.  It  was  the  story  of  '  Blue  Beard.' 
We  had  curtains  which  drew  back  and  forth,  and 
regular  footlights.  You  can't  think  how  good  it 
was !  There  were  four  scenes.  My  antique  cabi- 


OUR  MOTHER.  139 

net  was  the  '  Blue  Beard '  cabinet ;  we  yelled  in 
delightful  chorus  when  the  door  was  opened,  and 
the  children  stretched  their  necks  to  the  last  de 
gree  to  see  the  horrible  sight.  The  curtain  closed 
upon  a  fainting-fit,  done  by  four  women.  In  the 
third  scene  we  were  scrubbing  the  fatal  key,  when 
I  cried  out,  '  Try  the  mustang  liniment !  It 's  the 
liniment  for  us,  for  you  know  we  must  hang  if  we 
don't  succeed ! '  This,  which  was  made  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  overcame  the  whole  audience 
with  laughter,  and  I  myself  shook  so  that  I  had  to 
go  down  into  the  tub  in  which  we  were  scrubbing 
the  key.  Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  our 
play  was  very  successful,  and  immediately  after 
ward  came  supper.  There  were  four  long  tables 
for  the  children  ;  twenty  sat  at  each.  Ice-cream, 
cake,  blancmange,  and  delicious  sugar-plums,  also 
oranges,  etc.,  were  served  up  '  in  style.'  We  had 
our  supper  a  little  later.  Three  omnibus-loads 
went  from  my  door;  the  last  —  the  grown  people 
—  at  nine  o'clock." 

In  another  letter  to  the  same  dear  sister, 
our  mother  says :  — 

"  I  have  written  a  play  for  our  doll  theatre,  and 
performed  it  yesterday  afternoon  with  great  suc 
cess.  It  occupied  nearly  an  hour.  I  had  alter 
nately  to  grunt  and  squeak  the  parts,  while  Chev 


140  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

played  the  puppets.  [Chev  was  the  name  by 
which  she  always  called  our  father  ;  it  was  an  ab 
breviation  of  Chevalier,  for  he  was  always  to  her 
the  '  knight  without  reproach  or  fear.']  The  effect 
was  really  extremely  good.  The  spectators  were 
'in  a  dark  room,  and  the  little  theatre,  lighted  by  a 
lamp  from  the  top,  looked  very  pretty." 

This  may  have  been  the  play  of  "  Beauty 
and  the  Beast,"  of  which  the  manuscript  is 
unhappily  lost.  I  can  recall  but  one  passage : 

"  But  he  thought  on  '  Beauty's '  flower, 
And  he  popped  into  a  bower, 
And  he  plucked  the  fairest  rose 
That  grew  beneath  his  nose." 

I  remember  the  theatre  well,  and  the  pup 
pets.  They  were  quite  unearthly  in  their 
beauty,  —  all  except  the  "  Beast,"  a  strange, 
fur-covered  monstrosity.  The  "  Prince"  was 
gilded  in  a  most  enchanting  manner,  and  his 
mustache  curled  with  an  expression  of  royal 
pride.  I  have  seen  no  other  prince  like  him. 

All  this  was  at  Green  Peace;  but  many  as 
are  the  associations  with  her  beloved  pres 
ence  there,  it  is  at  the  Valley  that  I  most 
constantly  picture  our  mother.  She  loved 


OUR  MOTHER.  141 

the  Valley  more  than  any  other  place  on 
earth,  I  think;  so  it  is  always  pleasant  to 
fancy  her  there.  Study  formed  always  an 
important  part  of  her  life.  It  was  her  delight 
and  recreation,  when  weaned  with  household 
cares,  to  plunge  into  German  metaphysics, 
or  into  the  works  of  the  Latin  poets,  whom 
she  greatly  loved.  She  has  told,  in  one  of 
her  own  poems,  how  she  used  to  sit  under 
the  apple-trees  with  her  favorite  poet,  — 

"  Here  amid  shadows,  lovingly  embracing, 
Dropt  from  above  by  apple-trees  unfruitful, 
With  a  chance  scholar,  caught  and  held  to  help  me, 
Read  I  in  Horace,''  etc. 

But  I  do  not  think  she  had  great  need  of 
the  "chance  scholar."  I  remember  the  book 
well,  —  two  great  brown  volumes,  morocco- 
bound,  with  "  Horatius  Ed.  Orelli "  on  the 
back.  We  naturally  supposed  this  to  be  the 
writer's  entire  name ;  and  to  this  day, 
'  Quintus  Horatius  Flaccus '  (though  I  have 
nothing  to  say  against  its  authenticity)  does 
not  seem  to  me  as  real  a  name  as  "  Horatius 
Ed.  Orelli." 

Our  mother's  books,  —  alas  that  we  should 


142  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

have  been  so  familiar  with  the  outside  of 
them,  and  have  known  so  little  of  the  inside ! 
There  was  Tacitus,  who  was  high-shouldered 
and  pleasant  to  handle,  being  bound  in 
smooth  brown  calf.  There  was  Kant,  who 
could  not  spell  his  own  name  (we  thought 
it  ought  to  begin  with  a  C !).  There  was 
Spinoza,  whom  we  fancied  a  hunchback, 
with  a  long,  thin,  vibrating  nose.  ("  What's 
in  a  name?"  A  great  deal,  dear  Juliet,  I 
assure  you.)  Fichte  had  a  sneezing  sort  of 
face,  with  the  nose  all  "squinnied  up,"  as  we 
used  to  say;  and  as  for  Hilpcrt,  who  wrote 
the  great  German  dictionary,  there  can  be 
no  reasonable  doubt  that  he  was  a  cripple 
and  went  on  crutches,  though  I  have  no 
authority  to  give  for  the  fact  beyond  the 
resemblance  of  his  name  to  the  Scotch  verb 
"  hirple,"  meaning  "  to  hobble." 

Very,  very  much  our  mother  loved  her 
books.  Yet  how  quickly  were  they  laid 
aside  when  any  head  was  bumped,  any  knee 
scratched,  any  finger  cutl  When  we  tumbled 
down  and  hurt  ourselves,  our  father  always 
cried,  "  Jump  up  and  take  another ! "  and 


OUR  MOTHER.  143 

that  was  very  good  for  us  ;  but  our  mother's 
kiss  made  it  easier  to  jump  up. 

Horace  could  be  brought  out  under  the 
apple-trees ;  even  Kant  and  Spinoza  some 
times  came  there,  though  I  doubt  whether 
they  enjoyed  the  fresh  air.  But  our  mother 
had  other  work  besides  study,  and  many  of 
her  most  precious  hours  were  spent  each  day 
at  the  little  black  table  in  her  own  room, 
where  papers  lay  heaped  like  snowdrifts. 
Here  she  wrote  the  beautiful  poems,  the 
brilliant  essays,  the  earnest  and  thoughtful 
addresses,  which  have  given  pleasure  and 
help  and  comfort  to  so  many  people  through 
out  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 
Many  of  her  words  have  become  household 
sayings  which  we  could  not  spare  ;  but  there 
is  one  poem  which  every  child  knows,  at 
whose  opening  line  every  heart,  from  youth 
to  age,  must  thrill,  —  "The  Battle  Hymn  of 
the  Republic."  Thirty  years  have  passed 
since  this  noble  poem  was  written.  It  came 
in  that  first  year  of  the  war,  like  the  sound 
of  a  silver  trumpet,  like  the  flash  of  a  lifted 
sword;  and  all  men  felt  that  this  was  the 


144  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

word  for  which  they  had  been  waiting.  You 
shall  hear,  in  our  mother's  own  words,  how 
it  came  to  be  written  :  — 

"  In  the  late  autumn  of  the  year  1861  I  visited 
the  national  capital  in  company  with  my  husband 
Dr.  Howe,  and  a  party  of  friends,  among  whom 
were  Governor  and  Mrs.  Andrew,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
E.  P.  Whipple,  and  my  dear  pastor  Rev.  James 
Freeman  Clarke. 

"  The  journey  was  one  of  vivid,  even  romantic 
interest.  We  were  about  to  see  the  grim  Demon 
of  War  face  to  face ;  and  long  before  we  reached 
the  city  his  presence  made  itself  felt  in  the  blaze 
of  fires  along  the  road  where  sat  or  stood  our 
pickets,  guarding  the  road  on  which  we  travelled. 

"  One  day  we  drove  out  to  attend  a  review  of 
troops,  appointed  to  take  place  some  distance  from 
the  city.  In  the  carriage  with  me  were  James 
Freeman  Clarke  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whipple.  The 
day  was  fine,  and  everything  promised  well ;  but 
a  sudden  surprise  on  the  part  of  the  enemy  in 
terrupted  the  proceedings  before  they  were  well 
begun.  A  small  body  of  our  men  had  been 
surrounded  and  cut  off  from  their  companions; 
reinforcements  were  sent  to  their  assistance,  and 
the  expected  pageant  was  necessarily  given  up. 
The  troops  who  were  to  have  taken  part  in  it  were 


OUR  MOTHER.  145 

ordered  back  to  their  quarters,  and  we  also  turned 
our  horses'  heads  homeward. 

"  For  a  long  distance  the  foot-soldiers  nearly 
filled  the  road.  They  were  before  and  behind, 
and  we  were  obliged  to  drive  very  slowly.  We 
presently  began  to  sing  some  of  the  well-known 
songs  of  the  war,  and  among  them  - 

'  John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave.' 

This  seemed  to  please  the  soldiers,  who  cried, 
'  Good  for  you ! '  and  themselves  took  up  the 
strain.  Mr.  Clarke  said  to  me,  '  You  ought  to 
write  some  new  words  to  that  tune.'  I  replied 
that  I  had  often  wished  to  do  so. 

"In  spite  of  the  excitement  of  the  day  I  went 
to  bed  and  slept  as  usual,  but  awoke  next  morn 
ing  in  the  gray  of  the  early  dawn,  and  to  my 
astonishment  found  that  the  wished-for  lines  were 
arranging  themselves  in  my  brain.  I  lay  quite 
still  until  the  last  verse  had  completed  itself  in  my 
thoughts,  then  hastily  rose,  saying  to  myself,  '  I 
shall  lose  this  if  I  don't  write  it  down  immediately.' 
I  searched  for  a  sheet  of  paper  and  an  old  stump 
of  a  pen  which  I  had  had  the  night  before,  and 
began  to  scrawl  the  lines  almost  without  looking, 
as  I  had  learned  to  do  by  often  scratching  down 
verses  in  the  darkened  room  where  my  little  chil 
dren  were  sleeping.  Having  completed  this,  I  lay 

10 


146  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

down  again  and  fell  asleep,  but  not  without  feel 
ing  that  something  of  importance  had  happened 
to  me. 

"  The  poem  was  published  soon  after  this  time 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  It  first  came  promi 
nently  into  notice  when  Chaplain  McCabe,  newly 
released  from  Libby  Prison,  gave  a  lecture  in 
Washington,  and  in  the  course  of  it  told  how  he 
and  his  fellow-prisoners,  having  somehow  become 
possessed  of  a  copy  of  the  '  Battle  Hymn,'  sang  it 
with  a  will  in  their  prison,  on  receiving  surreptitious 
tidings  of  a  Union  victory." 

Our  mother's  genius  might  soar  as  high 
as  heaven  on  the  wings  of  such  a  song  as 
this  ;  but  we  always  considered  that  she  was 
tied  to  our  little  string,  and  we  never  doubted 
(alas !)  our  perfect  right  to  pull  her  down  to 
earth  whenever  a  matter  of  importance  — 
such  as  a  doll's  funeral  or  a  sick  kitten  — 
was  at  hand. 

To  her  our  confidences  were  made,  for  she 
had  a  rare  understanding  of  the  child-mind. 
We  were  always  sure  that  Mamma  knew 
"  just  how  it  was." 

To  her  did  Julia,  at  the  age  of  five,  or  it 
may  have  been  six,  impart  the  first  utter- 


OUR  MOTHER. 


147 


ances  of  her  infant  Muse.  "  Mamma,"  said 
the  child,  trembling  with  delight  and  awe, 
"  I  have  made  a  poem,  and  set  it  to  music  ! " 
Of  course  our  mother  was  deeply  interested, 
and  begged  to  hear  the  composition  ;  where 
upon,  encouraged  by  her  voice  and  smile, 
Julia  sang  as  follows  :  — 


1 


N     N--A- 


?=it=t 


& 


3—?—* 


I 


-»-T- 


I      had  a    lit -tie  boy;  He   died  when  he   was  young. 


^S^^l 


As  soon   as      he   was  dead,  He  walked  up-on    his  tongue  ! 


Our  mother's  ear  for  music  was  exquisitely 
fine,  —  so  fine,  that  when  she  was  in  her  own 
room,  and  a  child  practising  below-stairs 
played  a  false  note,  she  would  open  her  door 
and  cry,  "  B  flat,  dear  !  not  B  natural  !  " 
This  being  so,  it  was  grievous  to  her  when 
one  day,  during  her  precious  study  hour, 
Harry  came  and  chanted  outside  her  door  : 

"  Hong-kong  !  hong-kong  !  hong-kong  !  " 


148  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

"  Harry  !  "  she  cried,  "  do  stop  that  dreadful 
noise!"  But  when  the  little  lad  showed 
a  piteous  face,  and  said  reproachfully, 
"  Why,  Mamma,  I  was  singing  to  you ! " 
who  so  ready  as  our  mother  to  listen  to 
the  funny  song  and  thank  the  child  for 
it? 

When  ten-year-old  Laura  wrote,  in  a  cer 
tain  precious  little  volume  bound  in  Scotch 
plaid,  "  Whence  these  longings  after  the 
infinite?  "(I  cannot  remember  any  more!) 
be  sure  that  if  any  eyes  were  suffered  to  rest 
upon  the  sacred  lines  they  were  those  kind, 
clear,  understanding  gray  eyes  of  our  mother. 

Through  all  and  round  all,  like  a  laughing 
river,  flowed  the  current  of  her  wit  and  fun. 
No  child  could  be  sad  in  her  company.  If 
we  were  cold,  there  was  a  merry  bout  of 
"  fisticuffs "  to  warm  us ;  if  we  were  too 
warm,  there  was  a  song  or  story  while  we 
sat  still  and  "cooled  off."  We  all  had  nick 
names,  our  own  names  being  often  too 
sober  to  suit  her  laughing  mood.  We  were 
M  Petotty,"  "  Jehu,"  "  Wolly,"  and  "  Bunks  of 
Bunktown." 


JULIA  ROMANA  HOWE. 


OUR  MOTHER.  151 

On  one  occasion  our  mother's  presence  of 
mind  saved  the  life  of  the  child  Laura,  then 
a  baby  of  two  years  old.  We  were  all  stay 
ing  at  the  Institution  for  some  reason,  and 
the  nursery  was  in  the  fourth  story  of  the 
lofty  building.  One  day  our  mother  came 
into  the  room,  and  to  her  horror  saw  little 
Laura  rolling  about  on  the  broad  window- 
sill,  the  window  being  wide  open  ;  only  a 
few  inches  space  between  her  and  the  edge, 
and  then  —  the  street,  fifty  feet  below  !  The 
nurse  was,  I  know  not  where,  —  anywhere 
save  where  she  ought  to  have  been.  Our 
mother  stepped  quickly  and  quietly  back  out 
of  sight,  and  called  gently,  "Laura!  come 
here,  dear !  Come  to  me  !  I  have  something 
to  show  you."  A  moment's  agonized  pause, 
—  and  then  she  heard  the  little  feet  patter 
on  the  floor,  and  in  another  instant  held  the 
child  clasped  in  her  arms.  If  she  had 
screamed,  or  rushed  forward,  the  child  would 
have  started,  and  probably  would  have  fallen 
and  been  dashed  to  pieces. 

It  was  very  strange  to   us  to  find  other 
children  holding  their  revels   without  their 


I $2  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

father  and  mother.     "  Papa   and   Mamma " 
were  always  the  life  and  soul  of  ours. 

Our  mother's  letters  to  her  sister  are 
delightful,  and  abound  in  allusions  to  the 
children.  In  one  of  them  she  playfully 
upbraids  her  sister  for  want  of  attention  to 
the  needs  of  the  baby  of  the  day,  in  what 
she  calls  "  Family  Trochaics  " :  — 

44  Send  along  that  other  pink  shoe 
You  have  been  so  long  in  knitting ! 
Are  you  rot  ashamed  to  think  that 
Wool  was  paid  for  at  Miss  Carman's 
With  explicit  understanding 
You  should  knit  it  for  my  baby? 
And  that  baby  's  now  a-barefoot, 
While  your  own,  no  doubt,  has  choice  of 
Pink,  blue,  yellow  —  every  color, 
For  its  little  drawn-up  toe-toes, 
For  its  toe-toes,  small  as  green  peas, 
Counted  daily  by  the  mother, 
To  be  sure  that  none  is  missing  !  " 

Our  mother  could  find  amusement  in 
almost  anything.  Even  a  winter  day  of 
pouring  rain,  which  made  other  housewives 
groan  and  shake  their  heads  at  thought  of 
the  washing,  could  draw  from  her  the  follow 
ing  lines :  — 


OUR  MOTHER.  153 

THE   RAINY  DAY. 

(After  Longfellow.) 

The  morn  was  dark,  the  weather  low, 
The  household  fed  by  gaslight  show,  — 
When  from  the  street  a  shriek  arose : 
The  milkman,  bellowing  through  his  nose, 
Expluvior  ! 

The  butcher  came,  a  walking  flood, 
Drenching  the  kitchen  where  he  stood: 
"  Deucalion  is  your  name,  I  pray  ?  " 
"  Moses  !  "  he  choked,  and  slid  away. 
Expluvior  ! 

The  neighbor  had  a  coach  and  pair 
To  struggle  out  and  take  the  air  ; 
Slip-slop,  the  loose  galoshes  went; 
I  watched  his  paddling  with  content. 
Expluvior ! 

A  wretch  came  floundering  up  the  ice 
(The  rain  had  washed  it  smooth  and  nice), 
Two  ribs  stove  in  above  his  head, 
As,  turning  inside  out,  he  said, 
Expluvior ! 

No  doubt,  alas!  we  often  imposed  upon 
the  tenderness  of  this  dear  mother.  She 
was  always  absent-minded,  and  of  this  quality 
advantage  was  sometimes  taken.  One  day, 


154  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

when  guests  were  dining  with  her,  Harry 
came  and  asked  if  he  might  do  something 
that  happened  to  be  against  the  rules.  "  No, 
dear,"  said  our  mother,  and  went  on  with  the 
conversation.  In  a  few  moments  Harry  \va> 
at  her  elbow  again  with  the  same  question, 
and  received  the  same  answer.  This  was 
repeated  an  indefinite  number  of  times ;  at 
length  our  mother  awoke  suddenly  to  the 
absurdity  of  it,  and,  turning  to  the  child, 
said :  "  Harry,  what  do  you  mean  by  asking 
me  this  question  over  and  over  again,  when 
I  have  said  '  no '  each  time?"  '  Because," 
was  the  reply,  "  Flossy  said  that  if  I  asked 
often  enough,  you  might  say  *  yes !  " 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  our  mother  did  not 
"  say  yes "  on  this  occasion.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  Maud  was  not  whipped  for  tak 
ing  the  cherries,  when  she  needed  a  whipping 
sorely.  The  story  is  this:  it  was  in  the 
silent  days  of  her  babyhood,  for  Maud  did 
not  speak  a  single  word  till  she  was  two 
years  and  a  half  old ;  then  she  said,  one 
day,  "Look  at  that  little  dog!"  and  after 
that  talked  as  well  as  any  child.  But  if  she 


OUR  MOTHER.  155 

did  not  speak  in  those  baby  days,  she  thought 
a  great  deal.  One  day  she  thought  she 
wanted  some  wild  cherries  from  the  little 
tree  by  the  stone-wall,  down  behind  the  corn- 
crib  at  the  Valley.  So  she  took  them,  such 
being  her  disposition.  Our  mother,  coming 
upon  the  child  thus,  forbade  her  strictly  to 
touch  the  cherries,  showing  her  at  the  same 
time  a  little  switch,  and  saying :  "  If  you  eat 
any  more  cherries,  I  shall  have  to  whip  you 
with  this  switch  !  "  She  went  into  the  house, 
and  forgot  the  incident.  But  presently  Maud 
appeared,  with  a  bunch  of  cherries  in  one 
hand  and  the  switch  in  the  other.  Fixing 
her  great  blue  eyes  on  our  mother  with 
earnest  meaning,  she  put  the  cherries  in  her 
mouth,  and  then  held  out  the  switch.  Alas! 
and  our  mother  —  did  —  not  —  whip  her !  I 
mention  this  merely  to  show  that  our  mother 
was  (and,  indeed,  is)  mortal.  But  Maud  was 
the  baby,  and  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world, 
and  had  a  way  with  her  that  was  very  hard 
to  resist. 

It  was  worth  while  to  have  measles  and 
things   of   that   sort,  not    because    one   had 


I  $6  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

stewed  prunes  and  cream-toast  —  oh,  no  I  — 
but  because  our  mother  sat  by  us,  and  sang 
"  Lord  Thomas  and  Fair  Elinor,"  or  some 
mystic  ballad. 

The  walks  with  her  are  never  to  be  for 
gotten,  —  twilight  walks  round  the  hill  be 
hind  the  house,  with  the  wonderful  sunset 
deepening  over  the  bay,  turning  all  the  world 
to  gold  and  jewels ;  or  through  the  Valley 
itself,  the  lovely  wild  glen,  with  its  waterfall 
and  its  murmuring  stream,  and  the  solemn 
Norway  firs,  with  their  warning  fingers.  The 
stream  was  clear  as  crystal,  its  rocky  banks 
fringed  with  jewel-weed  and  rushes;  the  level 
sward  was  smooth  and  green  as  emerald. 
By  the  waterfall  stood  an  old  mill,  whose 
black  walls  looked  down  on  a  deep  brown 
pool,  into  which  the  foaming  cascade  fill 
with  a  musical,  rushing  sound.  I  have  de 
scribed  the  Valley  very  fully  elsewhere,1  but 
cannot  resist  dwelling  on  its  beauty  again  in 
connection  with  our  mother, — who  loved  so 
to  wander  through  it,  or  to  sit  with  her  work 
under  the  huge  ash-tree  in  the  middle,  win  re 
i  In  the  book  entitled  "  Queen  Hildegarde." 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

(From  a  recent  photograph  ) 


OUR  MOTHER.  159 

our  father  had  placed  seats  and  a  rustic 
table.  Here,  and  in  the  lovely,  lonely  fields, 
as  we  walked,  our  mother  talked  with  us, 
and  we  might  share  the  rich  treasures  of  her 
thought. 

"  And  oh  the  words  that  fell  from  her  mouth 
Were  words  of  wonder  and  words  of  truth  ! " 

One  such  word,  dropped  in  the  course  of 
conversation  as  the  maiden  in  the  fairy-story 
dropped  diamonds  and  pearls,  comes  now  to 
my  mind,  and  I  shall  write  it  here  because  it 
is  good  to  think  of  and  to  say  over  to  one's 
self:  — 

"  I  gave  my  son  a  palace 

And  a  kingdom  to  control, — 
The  palace  of  his  body, 
The  kingdom  of  his  soul." 

In  the  Valley,  too,  many  famous  parties 
and  picnics  were  given.  The  latter  are  to 
be  remembered  with  especial  delight.  A 
picnic  with  our  mother  and  one  without  her 
are  two  very  different  things.  I  never  knew 
that  a  picnic  could  be  dull  till  I  grew  up 
and  went  to  one  where  that  brilliant,  gra 
cious  presence  was  lacking.  The  games  we 


160  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

played,  the  songs  we  sang,  the  garlands  of 
oak  and  maple  leaves  that  we  wove,  listening 
to  the  gay  talk  if  we  were  little,  joining  in  it 
when  we  were  older;  the  simple  feast,  and 
then  the  improvised  charades  or  tableaux, 
always  merry,  often  graceful  and  lovely!  — 
ah,  these  are  things  to  remember ! 

Our  mother's  hospitality  was  boundless. 
She  loved  to  fill  the  little  house  to  overflow 
ing  in  summer  days,  when  every  one  was 
glad  to  get  out  into  the  fresh,  green  country. 
Often  the  beds  were  all  filled,  and  we  children 
had  to  take  to  sofas  and  cots :  once,  I  remem 
ber,  Harry  slept  on  a  mattress  laid  on  top  of 
the  piano,  there  being  no  other  vacant  spot. 

Sometimes  strangers  as  well  as  friends 
shared  this  kindly  hospitality.  I  well  re 
member  one  wild  stormy  night,  when  two 
mm  knocked  at  the  door  and  begged  for  a 
night's  lodging.  They  were  walking  to  the 
town,  they  said,  five  miles  distant,  but  had 
been  overtaken  by  the  storm.  The  people 
at  the  farm-house  near  by  had  rcfu>rd  to 
take  them  in  ;  there  was  no  other  slu-ltcr 
near.  Our  mother  hesitated  a  moment. 


OUR  MOTHER.  l6l 

Our  father  was  away ;  the  old  coachman 
slept  in  the  barn,  at  some  distance  from  the 
house ;  she  was  alone  with  the  children 
and  the  two  maids,  and  Julia  was  ill  with  a 
fever.  These  men  might  be  vagabonds,  or 
worse.  Should  she  let  them  in  ?  Then, 
perhaps,  she  may  have  heard,  amid  the  howl 
ing  of  the  storm,  a  voice  which  she  has  fol 
lowed  all  her  life,  saying,  "  I  was  a  stranger, 
and  ye  took  me  in !  "  She  bade  the  men 
enter,  in  God's  name,  and  gave  them  food, 
and  then  led  them  to  an  upper  bedroom, 
cautioning  them  to  tread  softly  as  they 
passed  the  door  of  the  sick  child's  room. 

Well,  that  is  all.  Nothing  happened. 
The  men  proved  to  be  quiet,  respectable 
persons,  who  departed,  thankful,  the  next 
morning. 

The  music  of  our  mother's  life  is  still 
sounding  on,  noble,  helpful,  and  beautiful. 
Many  people  may  still  look  into  her  serene 
face,  and  hear  her  silver  voice ;  and  no  one 
will  look  or  hear  without  being  the  better 
for  it.  I  cannot  close  this  chapter  better 
than  with  some  of  her  own  words,  —  a  poem 


1 62  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

which  I  wish  every  child,  and  every  grown 
person  too,  who  reads  this  might  learn  by 
heart. 

A   PARABLE. 

"  I  sent  a  child  of  mine  to-day : 

I  hope  you  used  him  well." 
"  Now,  Lord,  no  visitor  of  yours 

Has  waited  at  my  bell. 

"  The  children  of  the  millionaire 
Run  up  and  down  our  street; 
I  glory  in  their  well-combed  hair, 
Their  dress  and  trim  complete. 

"  But  yours  would  in  a  chariot  come 

With  thoroughbreds  so  gay, 
And  little  merry  maids  and  men 
To  cheer  him  on  his  way." 

"Stood,  then,  no  child  before  your  door?" 

The  Lord,  persistent,  said. 
"  Only  a  ragged  beggar-boy, 

With  rough  and  frowzy  head. 

14  The  dirt  wns  crusted  on  his  skin, 

His  muddy  feet  were  bare  ; 
The  cook  gave  victuals  from  within : 
I  cursed  his  coming  there." 

What  sorrow,  silvered  with  a  smile, 

Glides  o  *er  the  face  divine? 
What  tenderest  whisper  thrills  rebuke? 

"  The  beggar-boy  was  mine  1 " 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

OUR    TEACHERS. 

I  DO  not  know  why  we  had  so  many  teachers. 
No  doubt  it  was  partly  because  we  were  very 
troublesome  children.  But  I  think  it  was 
also  partly  owing  to  the  fact  that  our  father 
was  constantly  overrun  by  needy  foreigners 
seeking  employment.  He  was  a  philanthro 
pist  ;  he  had  been  abroad,  and  spoke  foreign 
languages, — that  was  enough!  His  office 
was  besieged  by  "  all  peoples,  nations,  and 
languages,"  —  all,  as  a  rule,  hungry, —  Greeks, 
Germans,  Poles,  Hungarians,  occasionally  a 
Frenchman  or  an  Englishman,  though  these 
last  were  rare.  Many  of  them  were  political 
exiles ;  sometimes  they  brought  letters  from 
friends  in  Europe,  sometimes  not. 

Our  father's  heart  never  failed  to  respond 
to  any  appeal  of  this  kind  when  the  appli 
cant  really  wanted  work ;  for  sturdy  beggars 
he  had  no  mercy.  So  it  sometimes  hap- 


164  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

pened  that,  while  waiting  for  something  else 
to  turn  up,  the  exile  of  the  day  would  be  set 
to  teaching  us,  —  partly  to  give  him  employ 
ment,  partly  also  by  way  of  finding  out  what 
he  knew  and  was  fit  for.  In  this  way  did 
Professor  Feaster  (this  may  not  be  the  cor 
rect  spelling,  but  it  was  our  way,  and  suited 
him  well)  come  to  be  our  tutor  for  a  time. 
He  was  a  very  stout  man,  so  stout  that  we 
considered  him  a  second  Daniel  Lambert. 
He  may  have  been  an  excellent  teacher,  but 
almost  my  only  recollection  of  him  is  that 
he  made  the  most  enchanting  little  paper 
houses,  with  green  doors  and  blinds  that 
opened  and  shut.  He  painted  the  inside  of 
the  houses  in  some  mysterious  way,  —  at 
least  there  were  patterns  on  the  floor,  like 
mosaic-work, — and  the  only  drawback  to 
our  perfect  happiness  on  receiving  one  of 
them  was  that  we  were  too  big  to  get 
inside. 

I  say  this  is  almost  my  only  recollection  of 
this  worthy  man  ;  but  candor  compels  me 
to  add  that  the  other  picture  which  his 
name  conjures  up  is  of  Harry  and  Laura 


OUR    TEACHERS.  165 

marching  round  the  dining-room  table,  each 
shouldering  a  log  of  wood,  and  shouting, — 

"  We  '11  kill  old  Feaster  ! 
We  '11  kill  old  Feaster  ! " 

This  was    very  naughty  indeed;    but,  as    I 
have   said  before,   we   were    often    naughty. 

One  thing  more  I  do  recollect  about  poor 
Professor  Feaster.  Flossy  was  at  once  his 
delight  and  his  terror.  She  was  so  bright, 
so  original,  so  —  alas!  so  impish.  She  used 
to  climb  up  on  his  back,  lean  over  his 
shoulder,  and  pull  out  his  watch  to  see  if 
the  lesson-hour  were  over.  To  be  sure,  she 
was  only  eight  at  this  time,  and  possibly 
the  scenes  from  "  Wilhelm  Tell"  which  he 
loved  to  declaim  with  republican  fervor 
may  have  been  rather  beyond  her  infant 
comprehension. 

One  day  Flossy  made  up  her  mind  that 
the  Professor  should  take  her  way  about 
something  —  I  quite  forget  what  —  rather 
than  his  own.  She  set  herself  deliberately 
against  him,  —  three  feet  to  six !  —  and  de 
clared  that  he  should  do  as  she  said.  The 


1 66  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

poor  Professor  looked  down  on  this  fiery 
pygmy  with  eyes  that  sparkled  through  his 
gold-bowed  spectacles.  "  I  haf  refused,"  he 
cried  in  desperation,  "  to  opey  ze  Emperor  of 
Austria,  mees !  Do  you  sink  I  will  opey 
you  ? ' 

Then  there  was  Madame  S ,  a  Danish 

lady,  very  worthy,  very  accomplished,  and  — 
ugly  enough  to  frighten  all  knowledge  out 
of  a  child's  head.  She  was  my  childish  ideal 
of  personal  uncomeliness,  yet  she  was  most 
good  and  kind. 

It  was  whispered  that  she  had  come  to 
this  country  with  intent  to  join  the  Mormons 
(of  course  we  heard  nothing  of  this  till  years 
after),  but  the  plan  had  fallen  through ;  she, 

Madame  S ,  did  not  understand  why,  but 

our  mother,  on  looking  at  her,  thought  the 
explanation  not  so  difficult.  She  had  a  re 
ligion  of  her  own,  this  poor,  good,  ugly  dame. 
It  was  probably  an  entirely  harmless  one, 
though  she  startled  our  mother  one  day  by 
approving  the  action  of  certain  fanatics  who 
had  killed  one  of  their  number  (by  his  own 
consent)  because  he  had  a  devil.  "  If  he  did 


OUR   TEACHERS.  167 

have  a  devil,"  quoth  Madame,  beaming  mildly 
over  the  purple  morning-glory  she  was  cro 
cheting,  "  it  may  have  been  a  good  thing 
that  he  was  killed." 

As  I  say,  this  startled  our  mother,  who 
began  to  wonder  what  would  happen  if 

Madame  S should  take  it  into  her  head 

that  any  of  our  family  was  possessed  by  a 
devil ;  but  neither  poison  nor  dagger  ap 
peared,  and  Madame  was  never  anything 
but  the  meekest  of  women. 

I  must  not  forget  to  say  that  before  she 
began  to  teach  she  had  wished  to  become  a 
lecturer.  She  had  a  lecture  all  ready;  it 
began  with  a  poetical  outburst,  as  follows: 

"  I  am  a  Dane !     I  am  a  Dane  ! 
I  am  not  ashamed  of  the  royal  name ! " 

But  we  never  heard  of  its  being  delivered. 

I  find  this  mention  of  Madame  S in  a 

letter  from  our  mother  to  her  sister:  — 

"  Danish  woman  very  ugly, 
But  remarkably  instructive,  — 
Drawing,  painting,  French,  and  German, 
Fancy-work  of  all  descriptions, 
With  geography  and  grammar. 
She  will  teach  for  very  little, 
And  is  a  superior  person." 


1 68  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

I  remember  some  of  the  fancy-work. 
There  were  pink-worsted  roses,  very  wonder 
ful, —  really  not  at  all  like  the  common  roses 
one  sees  in  gardens.  You  wound  the  worsted 
round  and  round,  spirally,  and  then  you  ran 
your  needle  down  through  the  petal  and 
pulled  it  a  little ;  this,  as  any  person  of  in 
telligence  will  readily  perceive,  made  a  rose- 
petal  with  a  dent  of  the  proper  shape  in  it. 
These  petals  had  to  be  pressed  in  a  book  to 
keep  them  flat,'  while  others  were  making. 
Sometimes,  years  and  years  after,  one  would 
find  two  or  three  of  them  between  the  leaves 
of  an  old  volume  of  "  Punch,"  or  some  other 
book;  and  instantly  would  rise  up  before  the 

mind's  eye  the  figure  of  Madame  S ,  with 

scarlet  face  and  dark-green  dress,  and  a  \vry 
remarkable  nose. 

Flossy  reminds  me  that  she  always  smelt 
of  peppermint.  So  she  did,  poor  lady !  and 
probably  took  it  for  its  medicinal  properties. 

Then  there  was  the  wax  fruit.  You  young 
people  of  sophisticated  to-day,  who  make 
such  things  of  real  beauty  with  your  skilful, 
kindergarten-trained  fingers,  what  would  you 


OUR    TEACHERS.  169 

say  to  the  wax  fruit  and  flowers  of  our  child 
hood  ?  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  know  how 
to  make  them.  We  bought  wax  at  the  apo 
thecary's,  white  wax,  in  round  flat  cakes,  pleas 
ant  to  nibble,  and  altogether  gratifying,  — 
wax,  and  chrome-yellow  and  carmine,  the 
colors  in  powder.  We  put  the  wax  in  a 
pipkin  (I  always  say  "  pipkin  "  when  I  have  a 
chance,  because  it  is  such  a  charming  word; 
but  if  my  readers  prefer  "saucepan,"  let  them 
have  it  by  all  means  ! )  —  we  put  it,  I  say,  in 
a  pipkin,  and  melted  it.  (For  a  pleasure 
wholly  without  alloy,  I  can  recommend  the 
poking  and  punching  of  half-melted  wax.) 
Then,  when  it  was  ready,  we  stirred  in  the 
yellow  powder,  which  produced  a  fine  Bartlett 
color.  Then  we  poured  the  mixture  —  oh, 
joy !  —  into  the  two  pear  or  peach  shaped 
halves  of  the  plaster  mold,  and  clapped  them 
together;  and  when  the  pear  or  peach  was 
cool  and  drv,  we  took  a  camel's-hair  brush 

j  * 

and  painted  a  carmine  cheek  on  one  side. 
I  do  not  say  that  this  was  art,  or  advance 
ment  of  culture  ;  I  do  not  say  that  its  results 
were  anything  but  hideous  and  abnormal; 


1 70  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

but  I  do  maintain  that  it  was  a  delightful 
and  enchanting  amusement.  And  if  t  lie  re- 
was  a  point  of  rapture  beyond  this,  it  was 
the  coloring  of  melted  wax  to  a  delicate  rose 
hue,  and  dipping  into  it  a  dear  little  spaddle 
(which,  be  it  explained  to  the  ignorant,  is  a 
flat  disk  with  a  handle  to  it)  and  taking  out 
liquid  rose-petals,  which  hardened  in  a  feu- 
minutes  and  were  rolled  delicately  off  with 
the  finger.  When  one  had  enough  (say, 
rather,  when  one  could  tear  one's  self  away 
from  the  magic  pipkin),  one  put  the  petals 
together ;  and  there  you  had  a  rose  that  was 
like  nothing  upon  earth. 

After  all,  were  wax  flowers  so  much  more 
hideous,  I  wonder,  than  some  things  one 
sees  to-day  ?  Why  is  it  that  such  a  stigma 
attaches  to  the  very  name  of  them?  Why 
do  not  people  go  any  longer  to  see  the  \\.ix 
figures  in  the  Boston  Museum?  Perhaps 
they  are  not  there  now;  perhaps  they  are 
grown  forlorn  and  dilapidated — indeed,  tiny 
never  were  very  splendid  !  —  and  have  been 
hustled  away  into  some  dim  lumber-room, 
from  whose  corners  they  glare  out  at  the 


OUR   TEACHERS.  171 

errant  call-boy  of  the  theatre,  and  frighten 
him  into  fits.  Daniel  Lambert,  in  scarlet 
waistcoat  and  knee-breeches !  the  "  Drunk 
ard's  Career,"  the  bare  recollection  of  which 
brings  a  thrill  of  horror,  —  there  was  one 
child  at  least  who  regarded  you  as  miracles 
of  art! 

Speaking  of  wax  reminds  me  of  Monsieur 

N ,  who  gave  us,  I  am  inclined  to  think, 

our  first  French  lessons,  besides  those  we 
received  from  our  mother.  He  was  a  very 
French  Frenchman,  with  blond  mustache 
and  imperial  waxed  a  la  Louis  Napoleon, 
and  a  military  carriage.  He  had  been  a 
soldier,  and  taught  fencing  as  well  as  French, 
though  not  to  us.  This  unhappy  gentleman 
had  married  a  Smyrniote  woman,  out  of  grat 
itude  to  her  family,  who  had  rescued  him 
from  some  pressing  danger.  Apparently  he 
did  them  a  great  service  by  marrying  the 
young  woman  and  taking  her  away,  for  she 
had  a  violent  temper, —  was,  in  short,  a  perfect 
vixen.  The  evils  of  this  were  perhaps  less 
ened  by  the  fact  that  she  could  not  speak 
French,  while  her  husband  had  no  knowl- 


1/2  WHEN  I   WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

edge  of  her  native  Greek.  It  is  the  simple 
truth  that  this  singular  couple  in  their  dis 
putes,  which  unfortunately  were  many,  used 
often  to  come  and  ask  our  father  to  act  as 

interpreter  between  them.  Monsieur  N 

himself  was  a  kind  man,  and  a  very  good 
teacher. 

There  is  a  tale  told  of  a  christening  feast 
which  he  gave  in  honor  of  Candide,  his  eld 
est  child.  Julia  and  Flossy  were  invited,  and 
also  the  governess  of  the  time,  whoever  she 
was.  The  company  went  in  two  hacks  to 
the  priest's  house,  where  the  ceremony  was  to 
be  performed;  on  the  way  the  rival  hacknun 
fell  out,  and  jeered  at  each  other,  and,  whip 
ping  up  their  lean  horses,  made  frantic  efforts 
each  to  obtain  the  front  rank  in  the  small 

cortege.  Whereupon  Monsieur  N ,  very 

angry  at  this  infringement  of  the  dignity  of 
the  occasion,  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  win 
dow  and  shrieked  to  his  hackman  :  — 

"Firts  or  sekind,  vich  you  bleece  !  "  which 
delighted  the  children  more  than  any  other 
part  of  the  entertainment. 

There  was  poor  Mi>>   k ,  whom  I  re- 


OUR    TEACHERS. 

call  with  mingled  dislike  and  compassion. 
She  must  have  been  very  young,  and  she 
had  about  as  much  idea  of  managing  chil 
dren  (we  required  a  great  deal  of  managing) 
as  a  tree  might  have.  Her  one  idea  of  disci 
pline  was  to  give  us  "  misdemeanors,"  which 
in  ordinary  speech  were  "  black  marks." 
What  is  it  I  hear  her  say  in  the  monotonous 
sing-song  voice  which  always  exasperated 
us?  —  "  Doctor,  Laura  has  had  fourteen  mis 
demeanors  !  "  Then  Laura  was  put  to  bed,  no 
doubt  very  properly ;  but  she  has  always  felt 
that  she  need  not  have  had  the  "  misdemean 
ors"  if  the  teaching  had  been  a  little  different 

Miss  R it  was  who  took  away  the  glass 

eye-cup ;  therefore  I  am  aware  that  I  cannot 
think  of  her  with  clear  and  unprejudiced 
mind.  But  she  must  have  had  bitter  times 
with  us,  poor  thing !  I  can  distinctly  remem 
ber  Flossy  urging  Harry,  with  fiery  zeal,  not 
to  recite  his  geography  lesson, —  I  cannot 
imagine  why. 

Miss  R often  rocked  in  the  junk  with 

us.  That  reminds  me  that  I  promised  to 
describe  the  junk.  But  how  shall  I  picture 


174  WHEN  I  WAS   YOU-R  AGE. 

that  perennial  fount  of  joy?  It  was  cres 
cent-shaped,  or  rather  it  was  like  a  lon 
gitudinal  slice  cut  out  of  a  watermelon. 
Magnify  the  slice  a  hundred-fold;  put  seats 
up  and  down  the  sides,  with  iron  bars  in 
front  to  hold  on  by ;  set  it  on  two  grooved 
rails  and  paint  it  red,  —  there  you  have  the 
junk!  Nay!  you  have  it  not  entire;  for  it 
should  be  filled  with  rosy,  shouting  children, 
standing  or  sitting,  holding  on  by  the  bars 
and  rocking  with  might  and  main,  — 

"  Yo-ho !     Here  we  go ! 
Up  and  down  !     Heigh-ho  t  " 

Why  are  there  no  junks  nowadays  ?  Surely 
it  would  be  better  for  us,  body  and  mind,  if 
there  were ;  for,  as  for  the  one,  the  rocking 
exercised  every  muscle  in  the  whole  bodily 
frame,  and  as  for  the  other,  black  Care  could 
not  enter  the  junk  (at  least  he  did  not), 
nor  weariness,  nor  "shadow  of  annoyance." 
There  ought  to  be  a  junk  on  Boston  Com 
mon,  free  to  all,  and  half  a  dozen  in  Central 
Park;  and  I  hope  every  young  person  \\ho 
reads  these  words  will  suggest  this  device  to 
his  parents  or  guardians. 


OUR   TEACHERS.  1 75 

But  teaching  is  not  entirely  confined  to 
the  archery  practice  of  the  young  idea ;  and 
any  account  of  our  teachers  would  be  in 
complete  without  mention  of  our  dancing- 
master,  —  of  the  dancing-master,  for  there  was 
but  one.  You  remember  that  the  dandy  in 
"  Punch,"  being  asked  of  whom  he  buys  his 
hats,  replies :  "  Scott.  Is  there  another  fel 
lah  ? "  Even  so  it  would  be  difficult  for  the 
Boston  generation  of  middle  or  elder  life  to 
acknowledge  that  there  could  have  been 
"  another  fellah "  to  teach  dancing  besides 
Lorenzo  Papanti.  Who  does  not  remember 
—  nay !  who  could  ever  forget  —  that  tall, 
graceful  figure ;  that  marvellous  elastic 
glide,  like  a  wave  flowing  over  glass?  Who 
could  ever  forget  the  shrewd,  kindly  smile 
when  he  was  pleased,  the  keen  lightning 
of  his  glance  when  angered  ?  What  if  he 
did  rap  our  toes  sometimes  till  the  tim 
orous  wept,  and  those  of  stouter  heart 
flushed  scarlet,  and  clenched  their  small 
hands  and  inly  vowed  revenge?  No  doubt 
we  richly  deserved  it,  and  it  did  us 
good. 


WHEN  I   WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

If  I  were  to  hear  a  certain  strain  played 
in  the  desert  of  Sahara  or  on  the  plains  of 
Idaho,  I  should  instantly  "  forward  and  back 
and  cross  over,"  —  and  so,  I  warrant,  would 
most  of  my  generation  of  Boston  people. 
There  is  one  grave  and  courteous  gentleman 
of  my  acquaintance,  whom  to  see  dance  the 
shawl-dance  with  his  fairy  sister  was  a  dream 
of  poetry.  As  for  the  gavotte  —  O  beautiful 
Amy!  O  lovely  Alice!  I  see  you  now,  with 
your  short,  silken  skirts  flowing  out  to  ex 
treme  limit  of  crinoline  ;  with  your  fair  locks 
confined  by  the  discreet  net,  sometimes  of 
brown  or  scarlet  chenille,  sometimes  of  finest 
silk ;  with  snowy  stockings,  and  slippers 
fastened  by  elastic  bands  crossed  over  the 
foot  and  behind  the  ankle ;  with  arms  and 
neck  bare.  If  your  daughters  to-day  chance 
upon  a  photograph  of  you  taken  in  those 
days,  they  laugh  and  ask  mamma  how  she 
could  wear  such  queer  things,  and  make  such 
a  fright  of  herself!  Hut  I  remember  how 
lovely  you  were,  and  how  perfectly  you  al 
ways  dressed,  and  with  what  exquisite  grace 
you  danced  the  gavotte. 


LAURA  E.  RICHARDS. 


OUR    TEACHERS.  1 79 

So,  I  think,  all  we  who  jumped  and  changed 
our  feet,  who  pirouetted  and  chasseed  under 
Mr.  Papanti,  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude. 
His  hall  was  a  paradise,  the  stiff  little  dress 
ing-room,  with  its  rows  of  shoe-boxes,  the 
antechamber  of  delight,  —  and  thereby  hangs 
a  tale.  The  child  Laura  grew  up,  and  mar 
ried  one  who  had  jumped  and  changed  his 
feet  beside  her  at  Papanti's,  and  they  two 
went  to  Europe  and  saw  many  strange  lands 
and  things ;  and  it  fell  upon  a  time  that 
they  were  storm-bound  in  a  little  wretch  of 
a  grimy  steamer  in  the  Gulf  of  Corinth. 
With  them  was  a  travelling  companion  who 
also  had  had  the  luck  to  be  born  in  Boston, 
and  to  go  to  dancing-school ;  the  other  pas 
sengers  were  a  Greek,  an  Italian,  and  —  I 
think  the  third  was  a  German,  but  as  he  was 
seasick  it  made  no  difference.  Three  days 
were  we  shut  up  there  while  the  storm  raged 
and  bellowed,  and  right  thankful  we  were  for 
the  snug  little  harbor  which  stretched  its 
protecting  arms  between  us  and  the  white 
churning  waste  of  billows  outside  the  bar. 

We  played  games  to  make  the  time  pass ; 


ISO  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

we  talked  endlessly,  —  and  in  the  course  of 
talk  it  naturally  came  to  pass  that  we  told  of 
our  adventures,  and  where  we  came  from, 
and,  in  short,  who  we  were.  The  Greek 
gentleman  turned  out  to  be  an  old  acquaint 
ance  of  our  father,  and  was  greatly  overjoyed 
to  see  me,  and  told  me  many  interesting 
things  about  the  old  fighting-days  of  the 
revolution.  The  Italian  spoke  little  during 
this  conversation,  but  when  he  heard  the 
word  "  Boston"  he  pricked  up  his  cars;  and 
when  a  pause  came,  he  asked  if  we  came 
from  Boston.  "  Yes,"  we  all  answered,  with 
the  inward  satisfaction  which  every  Bosto- 
nian  feels  at  being  able  to  make  the  reply. 
And  had  we  ever  heard,  in  Boston,  he  went 
on  to  inquire,  of  "  un  certo  Papanti,  maestro 
di  ballo  ? "  "  Heard  of  him  I "  cried  the  three 
dancing-school  children,  —  "we  never  heard 
of  any  one  else!"  Thereupon  ensued  much 
delighted  questioning  and  counter-question 
ing.  This  gentleman  came  from  Leghorn, 
Mr.  Papanti's  native  city.  He  knew  his 
family ;  they  were  excellent  people.  Lorenzo 
himself  he  had  never  seen,  as  he  left  Italy  so 


OUR   TEACHERS.  l8l 

many  years  ago ;  but  reports  had  reached 
Leghorn  that  he  was  very  successful,  —  that 
he  taught  the  best  people  (O  Beacon 
street !  O  purple  windows  and  brown-stone 
fronts,  I  should  think  so!);  that  he  had  in 
vented  "  un  piano  sopra  molle,"  a  floor  on 
springs.  Was  this  true  ?  Whereupon  we 
took  up  our  parable,  and  unfolded  to  the 
Livornese  mind  the  glory  of  Papanti,  till 
he  fairly  glowed  with  pride  in  his  famous 
fellow-townsman. 

And,  finally,  was  not  this  a  pleasant  little 
episode  in  a  storm-bound  steamer  in  the 
Gulf  of  Corinth? 


CHAPTER   IX. 

OUR    FRIENDS. 

WE  had  so  many  friends  that  I  hardly  know 
where  to  begin.  First  of  all,  perhaps,  I  should 
put  the  dear  old  Scotch  lady  whom  we  called 
'*  D.  D."  She  had  another  name,  but  that  is 
nobody's  business  but  her  own.  D.  D.  was  a 
thousand  years  old.  She  always  said  so  when 
we  asked  her  age,  and  she  certainly  ought  to 
have  known.  No  one  would  have  thought  it 
to  look  at  her,  for  she  had  not  a  single  gr.iy 
hair,  and  her  eyes  were  as  bright  and  black 
as  a  young  girl's.  One  of  the  pleu>antest 
things  about  her  was  the  way  she  dressed,  in 
summer  particularly.  She  wore  a  gown  of 
white  dimity,  always  spotlessly  clean,  made 
with  a  single  plain  skirt,  and  a  jacket.  The 
jacket  was  a  little  open  in  front,  showing  a 
handkerchief  of  white  net  fastened  with  a 
brooch  of  hair  in  the  shape  of  a  harp. 


OUR  FRIENDS.  183 

Fashions  made  no  difference  to  D.  D. 
People  might  wear  green  or  yellow  or  pur 
ple,  as  they  pleased,  —  she  wore  her  white 
dimity;  and  we  children  knew  instinctively 
that  it  was  the  prettiest  and  most  becoming 
dress  that  she  could  have  chosen. 

Another  wonderful  thing  about  D.  D.  was 
her  store-closet.  There  never  was  such  a 
closet  as  that !  It  was  all  full  of  glass  jars, 
and  the  jars  were  full  of  cinnamon  and  nut 
meg  and  cloves  and  raisins,  and  all  manner 
of  good  things.  Yes,  and  they  were  not 
screwed  down  tight,  as  jars  are  likely  to  be 
nowadays ;  but  one  could  take  off  the  top, 
and  see  what  was  inside;  and  if  it  was  cin 
namon,  one  might  take  even  a  whole  stick, 
and  D.  D.  would  not  mind.  Sometimes  a 
friend  of  hers  who  lived  at  the  South  would 
send  her  a  barrel  of  oranges  (she  called  it  a 
"  bar'l  of  awnges,"  because  she  was  Scotch, 
and  we  thought  it  sounded  a  great  deal  pret 
tier  than  the  common  way),  and  then  we  had 
glorious  times;  for  D.  D.  thought  oranges 
were  very  good  for  us,  and  we  thought  so 
too.  Then  she  had  some  very  delightful  and 


1 84  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

interesting  drawers,  full  of  old  daguerreo 
types  and  pieces  of  coral,  and  all  kinds  of 
alicumtweezles.  Have  I  explained  before 
that  "alicumtweezles"  are  nearly  the  same 
as  "picknickles"  and  "  bucknickles"? 

D.  D.'s  son  was  a  gallant  young  soldier, 
and  it  was  his  hair  that  she  wore  in  the 
harp-shaped  brooch.  Many  of  the  daguer 
reotypes  were  of  him,  and  he  certainly  was 
as  handsome  a  fellow  as  any  mother  could 
wish  a  son  to  be.  When  we  went  to  take 
tea  with  D.  D.,  which  was  quite  often,  we 
always  looked  over  her  treasures,  and  asked 
the  same  questions  over  and  over,  the  dear 
old  lady  never  losing  patience  with  us.  And 
such  jam  as  we  had  for  tea !  D.  D.'s  jams 
and  jellies  were  famous,  and  she  often  made 
our  whole  provision  of  sweet  things  for  the 
winter.  Then  we  were  sure  of  having  the 
best  quince  marmalade  and  the  clearest  jdly  ; 
while  as  for  the  peach  marmalade  —  no  words 
can  describe  it ! 

D.  D.  was  a  wonderful  nurse;  and  when 
we  were  ill  she  often  came  and  lu-lprd  our 
mother  in  taking  care  of  us.  Then  she 


OUR  FRIENDS.  185 

would  sing  us  her  song,  —  a  song  that  no 
one  but  D.  D.  and  the  fortunate  children 
who  had  her  for  a  friend  ever  heard.  It  is 
such  a  good  song  that  I  must  write  it  down, 
being  very  sure  that  D.  D.  would  not  care. 

"  There  was  an  old  man,  and  he  was  mad, 

And  he  ran  up  the  steeple  ; 
He  took  off  his  great  big  hat, 
And  waved  it  over  the  people." 

To  D.  D.  we  owe  the  preservation  of  one 
of  Laura's  first  compositions,  written  when 
she  was  ten  years  old.  She  gave  it  to  the 
good  lady,  who  kept  it  for  many  years  in  her 
treasure-drawer  till  Laura's  own  children 
were  old  enough  to  read  it.  It  is  a  story, 
and  is  called  — 

LOST  AND  FOUND. 

Marion  Gray,  a  lovely  girl  of  thirteen,  one  day 
tied  on  her  gypsy  hat,  and,  singing  a  merry  song, 
bade  good-by  to  her  mother,  and  ran  quickly 
toward  the  forest.  She  was  the  youngest  daugh 
ter  of  Sir  Edward  Gray,  a  celebrated  nobleman  in 
great  favor  with  the  king,  and  consequently  Marion 
had  everything  she  wished  for.  When  she  reached 


1 86  WHEX  I   WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

the  wood  she  set  her  basket  down  under  a  chest 
nut-tree,  and  climbing  up  into  the  branches  she 
shook  them  till  the  ripe  fruit  came  tumbling  down. 
She  then  jumped  down,  and  having  filled  her  bas 
ket  was  proceeding  to  another  tree,  when  all  of  a 
sudden  a  dark-looking  man  stepped  out,  who,  when 
she  attempted  to  fly,  struck  her  severely  with  a 
stick,  and  she  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

Meanwhile  all  was  in  confusion  at  the  manor- 
house.  Marion's  faithful  dog  Carlo  had  seen  the 
man  lurking  in  the  thicket,  and  had  tried  to  warn 
his'mistress  of  the  danger.  But  seeing  she  did  not 
mind,  the  minute  he  saw  the  man  prepare  to  spring 
out  he  had  run  to  the  house.  He  made  them  under 
stand  that  some  one  had  stolen  Marion.  "Who, 
Carlo,  who?"  exclaimed  the  agonized  mother. 
Carlo  instantly  picked  up  some  A-B-C  blocks 
which  lay  on  the  floor,  and  putting  together  the 
letters  that  form  the  word  "  Gypsies,"  looked  up  at 
his  master  and  wagged  his  tail.  "  The  Gypsies!" 
exclaimed  Sir  Edward;  "alas!  if  the  gypsies  have 
stolen  our  child,  we  shall  never  see  her  again." 
Nevertheless  they  searched  and  searched  the  wood, 
but  no  trace  of  her  was  to  be  found. 

"  Hush  !  here  she  is  !     Is  n't  she  a  beauty?  " 

"  Yes !  but  what  is  her  name?  " 

44  Marion  Gray.     I  picked  her  up  in  the  wood. 


OUR  FRIENDS.  187 

A  splendid  addition  to  our  train,  for  she  can  beg 
charity  and  a  night's  lodging ;  and  then  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  is  just  to  find  out  where  they 
keep  the  key,  and  let  us  in.  Hush!  hush!  she's 
coming  to." 

These  words  were  spoken  by  a  withered  hag  of 
seventy  and  the  man  who  had  stolen  her.  Slowly 
Marion  opened  her  eyes,  and  what  was  her  horror 
to  find  herself  in  a  gypsy  camp  ! 

I  will  skip  over  the  five  long  years  of  pain  and 
suffering,  and  come  to  the  end  of  my  story.  Five 
years  have  passed,  and  the  new  king  sits  on  his 
royal  throne,  judging  and  condemning  a  band  of 
gypsies.  They  are  all  condemned  but  one  young 
girl,  who  stands  with  downcast  eyes  before  him ; 
but  when  she  hears  her  doom,  she  raises  her  dark 
flashing  eyes  on  the  king.  A  piercing  shriek  is 
heard,  the  crown  and  sceptre  roll  down  the  steps 
of  the  throne,  and  Marion  Gray  is  clasped  in  her 
father's  arms ! 

Another  dear  friend  was  Miss  Mary.  She 
was  a  small,  brisk  woman,  with  "  New  Eng 
land  "  written  all  over  her.  She  used  to 
stay  with  us  a  good  deal,  helping  my  mother 
in  household  matters,  or  writing  for  our 
father;  and  we  all  loved  her  dearly.  She 


1 88  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

had  the  most  beautiful  hair,  masses  and 
masses  of  it,  of  a  deep  auburn,  and  waving 
in  a  lovely  fashion.  She  it  was  who  used  to 
say,  "  Hurrah  for  Jackson!"  whenever  any 
thing  met  her  special  approval ;  and  we  all 
learned  to  say  it  too,  and  to  this  day  some 
of  us  cheer  the  name  of  "  Old  Hickory," 
who  has  been  in  his  grave  these  fifty  years. 
Miss  Mary  came  of  seafaring  people,  and 
had  many  strange  stories  of  wreck  and  tem 
pest,  of  which  we  were  never  weary.  Miss 
Mary's  energy  was  untiring,  her  activity  un 
ceasing.  She  used  to  make  long  woodland 
expeditions  with  us  in  the  woods  around 
the  Valley,  leading  the  way  "over  hill,  over 
dale,  thorough  bush,  thorough  brier,"  finding 
all  manner  of  wild-wood  treasures,  —  crtrp- 
ing-jenny,  and  ferns  and  mosses  without 
end,  —  which  were  brought  home  to  decorate 
the  parlors.  She  knew  the  name  of  every 
plant,  and  what  it  was  good  for.  She  knew 
when  the  barberries  must  be  gathered,  and 
when  the  mullein  flowers  were  ready.  She- 
walked  so  fast  and  so  far  that  she  wore  out  an 
unreasonable  number  of  shoes  in  a  season. 


OUR  FRIENDS.  189 

Speaking  of  her  shoes  reminds  me  that 
at  the  fire  of  which  I  spoke  in  a  previous 
chapter,  at  the  Institution  for  the  Blind,  Miss 
Mary  was  the  first  person  to  give  the  alarm. 
She  had  on  a  brand-new  pair  of  morocco 
slippers  when  the  fire  broke  out,  and  by  the 
time  it  was  extinguished  they  were  in  holes. 
This  will  give  you  some  idea  of  Miss  Mary's 
energy. 

Then  there  was  Mr.  Ford,  one  of  the  very 
best  of  our  friends.  He  was  a  sort  of  facto 
tum  of  our  father,  and,  like  The  Bishop  in 
the  "  Bab  Ballads,"  was  "  short  and  stout  and 
round-about,  and  zealous  as  could  be."  We 
were  very  fond  of  trotting  at  his  heels,  and 
loved  to  pull  him  about  and  tease  him,  which 
the  good  man  never  seemed  to  resent.  Once, 
however,  we  carried  our  teasing  too  far,  as 
you  shall  hear.  One  day  our  mother  was 
sitting  quietly  at  her  writing,  thinking  that 
the  children  were  all  happy  and  good,  and 
possessing  her  soul  in  patience.  Suddenly 
to  her  appeared  Julia,  her  hair  flying,  eyes 
wide  open,  mouth  ditto,  —  the  picture  of 
despair. 


WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

44  Oh,  Mamma!"  gasped  the  child,  "  I  have 
done  the  most  dreadful  thing  !  Oh,  the  most 
dreadful,  terrible  thing!" 

44  What  is  it  ?  "  exclaimed  our  mother,  drop 
ping  her  pen  in  distress ;  4t  what  have  you 
done,  dear  ?  Tell  me  quickly !  " 

44  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you !  "  sobbed  the  child; 
44 1  cannot !  " 

44  Have  you  set  the  house  on  fire?  "  cried 
our  mother. 

44  Oh,  worse  than  that ! "  gasped  poor  Julia, 
14  much  worse!" 

44  Have  you  dropped  the  baby  ? " 

44  Worse  than  that ! " 

Now,  there  was  nothing  worse  than  drop 
ping  the  baby,  so  our  mother  began  to  feel 
relieved. 

44  Tell  me  at  once,  Julia,"  she  said,  4i  what 
you  have  done !  " 

"I  —  I  —  "  sobbed  poor  Julia,  — 44 1  pulled 
—  I  pulled  —  off — Mr.  Ford's  wig!" 

There  were  few  people  we  loved  better 
than  Tomty,  the  gardener.  This  dear,  good 
man  must  have  been  a  martyr  to  our  pranks, 
and  the  only  wonder  is  that  he  was  able  to 


OUR  FRIENDS.  19 1 

do  any  gardening  at  all.  It  was  "  Tomty  " 
here  and  "  Tomty  "  there,  from  morning  till 
night.  When  Laura  wanted  her  bonnet- 
strings  tied  (oh,  that  odious  little  bonnet ! 
with  the  rows  of  pink  and  green  quilled  rib 
bon  which  was  always  coming  off),  she  never 
thought  of  going  into  the  house  to  Mary, 
though  Mary  was  good  and  kind  too,  —  she 
always  ran  to  Tomty,  who  must  "  lay  down 
the  shovel  and  the  hoe,"  and  fashion  bow- 
knots  with  his  big,  clumsy,  good-natured 
fingers.  When  Harry  was  playing  out  in 
the  hot  sun  without  a  hat,  and  Mary  called 
to  him  to  come  in  like  a  good  boy  and  get 
his  hat,  did  he  go  ?  Oh,  no  !  He  tumbled 
the  potatoes  or  apples  out  of  Tomty's  basket, 
and  put  that  on  his  head  instead  of  a  hat,  and 
it  answered  just  as  well. 

Poor,  dear  Tomty !  He  went  to  California 
in  later  years,  and  was  cruelly  murdered  by 
some  base  wretches  for  the  sake  of  a  little 
money  which  he  had  saved. 

Somehow  we  had  not  very  many  friends 
of  our  own  age.  I  suppose  one  reason  was 
that  we  were  so  many  ourselves  that  there 
were  always  enough  to  have  a  good  time. 


1 92  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE, 

There  were  one  or   two   little  m rls  who 

O 

used  to  go  with  us  on  the  famous  maying- 
parties,  which  were  great  occasions.  On 
May-day  morning  we  would  take  to  ourselves 
baskets,  —  some  full  of  goodies,  some  empty, 
—  and  start  for  a  pleasant  wooded  place  not 
far  from  Green  Peace.  Here,  on  a  sunny 
slope  where  the  savins  grew  not  too  thickly 
to  prevent  the  sun  from  shining  merrily  down 
on  the  mossy  sward,  we  would  pitch  our  tent 
(only  there  was  no  tent),  and  prepare  to  be 
perfectly  happy.  We  gathered  such  early 
flowers  as  were  to  be  found,  and  made  gar 
lands  of  them ;  we  chose  a  queen  and 
crowned  her;  and  then  we  had  a  fra-t. 
which  was  really  the  object  of  the  whole 
expedition. 

It  was  the  proper  thing  to  buy  certain 
viands  for  this  feast,  the  home  dainties  being 
considered  not  sufficiently  rare. 

Well,  we  ate  our  oranges  and  nibbled  our 
cocoanut,  and  the  older  ones  drank  the  milk, 
if  there  was  any  in  the  nut:  this  was  con 
sidered  the  very  height  of  luxury,  and  the 
little  ones  knew  it  was  too  much  for  them 


OUR  FRIENDS.  1 93 

to  expect.  I  cannot  remember  whether  we 
were  generally  ill  after  these  feasts,  but  I 
think  it  highly  probable. 

In  mentioning  our  friends,  is  it  right  to 
pass  over  the  good  "  four-footers,"  who  were 
so  patient  with  us,  and  bore  with  so  many 
of  our  vagaries?  Can  we  ever  forget  Oggy 
the  Steamboat,  so  called  from  the  loudness 
of  her  purring?  Do  not  some  of  us  still 
think  with  compunction  of  the  day  when 
this  good  cat  was  put  in  a  tin  pan,  and  cov 
ered  over  with  a  pot-lid,  while  on  the  lid  was 
set  her  deadly  enemy  Ella,  the  fat  King 
Charles  spaniel  ?  What  a  snarling  ensued ! 
what  growls,  hisses,  yells,  mingled  with  the 
clashing  of  tin  and  the  "  unseemly  laughter" 
of  naughty  children ! 

And  Lion,  the  good  Newfoundland  dog, 
who  let  us  ride  on  his  back  —  when  he  was 
in  the  mood,  and  tumbled  us  off  when  he 
was  not!  He  was  a  dear  dog;  but  Fannie, 
his  mate,  was  anything  but  amiable,  and 
sometimes  gave  sore  offence  to  visitors  by 
snapping  at  their  heels  and  growling. 

But  if  the  cats  and  dogs  suffered  from  us, 
13 


194  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

we  suffered  from  Jose!  O  Jose!  what  a 
tyrannous  little  beast  you  were !  Never  was 
a  brown  donkey  prettier,  I  am  quite  sure ; 
never  did  a  brown  donkey  have  his  own  way 
so  completely. 

Whether  a  child  could  take  a  ride  or  not 
depended  entirely  on  whether  Jose  was  in 
the  mood  for  it.  If  not,  he  trotted  a  little 
way  till  he  got  the  child  alone;  and  then 
he  calmly  rubbed  off  his  rider  against  a  tree 
or  fence,  and  trotted  away  to  the  stable.  Of 
course  this  was  when  we  were  very  little ;  but 
by  the  time  the  little  ones  were  big  enough 
to  manage  him  Jose  was  dead ;  so  some  of  us 
never  "got  even  with  him,'1  as  the  boys  say. 
When  the  dearest  uncle  in  the  world  sent  us 
the  donkey-carriage,  things  went  better;  for 
the  obstinate  little  brown  gentleman  could 
not  get  rid  of  that,  of  course,  and  tin  -re- 
were  many  delightful  drives,  with  much  jing 
ling  of  harness  and  all  manner  of  style  and 
splendor. 

These  were  some  of  our  friends,  two-footers 
and  four-footers.  There  were  many  others, 
of  course,  but  time  and  space  fail  to  tell  of 


OUR  FRIENDS.  195 

them.  After  all,  perhaps  they  were  just  like 
other  children's  friends.  I  must  not  weary 
my  readers  by  rambling  on  indefinitely  in 
these  long-untrodden  paths ;  but  I  wish  other 
children  could  have  heard  Oggy  purr ! 


CHAPTER  X. 

OUR   GUESTS. 

MANY  interesting  visitors  came  and  went, 
both  at  Green  Peace  and  the  Valley,  — 
many  more  than  I  can  recollect.  The  visit 
of  Kossuth,  the  great  Hungarian  patriot, 
made  no  impression  upon  me,  as  I  was  only 
a  year  old  when  he  came  to  this  country; 
but  there  was  a  great  reception  for  him  at 
Green  Peace,  and  many  people  assembled 
to  do  honor  to  the  brave  man  who  had  tried 
so  hard  to  free  his  country  from  the  Au>ti  i.m 
yoke,  and  had  so  nearly  succeeded.  I  re 
member  a  certain  hat,  which  we  younger 
children  firmly  believed  to  have  been  his, 
though  I  have  since  been  informed  that  we 
were  mistaken.  At  all  evenK  \\<  iiM-d  to 
play  with  the  hat  (I  wonder  whose  it  \v 
under  this  impression,  and  it  formed  an 


OUR  GUESTS.  197 

important  element  in  "dressing  up,"  which 
was  one  of  our  chief  delights. 

One  child  would  put  on  Kossuth's  hat, 
another  Lord  Byron's  helmet,  —  a  s\iperb  af 
fair  of  steel  and  gold,  which  had  been  given 
to  our  father  in  Greece,  after  Byron's  death 
(we  ought  not  to  have  been  allowed  to 
touch  so  precious  a  relic,  far  less  to  dress 
up  in  it !) ;  while  a  third  would  appropriate 
a  charming  little  square  Polish  cap  of  fine 
scarlet,  which  ought  to  have  belonged  to 
Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  but  did  not,  I  fear. 

What  pleasant  things  we  had  to  dress  up 
in !  There  was  our  father's  wedding-coat, 
bright  blue,  with  brass  buttons ;  and  the 
waistcoat  he  had  worn  with  it,  white  satin 
with  raised  velvet  flowers,  —  such  a  fine 
waistcoat !  There  were  two  embroidered 
crape  gowns  which  had  been  our  grand 
mother's,  with  waists  a  few  inches  long,  and 
long,  skimp  skirts  ;  and  the  striped  blue  and 
yellow  moire,  which  our  mother  had  worn 
in  some  private  theatricals,  —  that  was  be 
yond  description !  And  the  white  gauze 
with  gold  flounces  —  oh !  and  the  peach- 
blossom  silk  with  flowers  all  over  it  —  ah  ! 


198  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

But  this  is  a  digression,  and  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  our  guests,  who  never 
played  "dressing  up,"  that  I  can  remember. 

One  of  our  most  frequent  visitors  at  Green 
Peace  was  the  great  statesman  and  patriot, 
Charles  Sumner.  He  was  a  very  dear  friend 
of  our  father,  and  they  loved  to  be  together 
whenever  the  strenuous  business  of  their 
lives  would  permit. 

We  children  used  to  call  Mr.  Sumner"  the 
Harmless  Giant;  "and  indeed  he  was  very 
kind  to  us,  and  had  always  a  pleasant  word 
for  us  in  that  deep,  melodious  voice  which 
no  one,  once  hearing  it,  could  ever  forget. 
He  towered  above  us  to  what  seemed  an 
enormous  height ;  yet  we  were  told  that  he 
stood  six  feet  in  his  stockings,  —  no  more. 
This  impression  being  made  on  Laura's 
mind,  she  was  used  to  employ  the  great 
senator  as  an  imaginary  foot-rule  (six-foot 
rule,  I  should  say),  and,  until  she  was  al 
most  a  woman  grown,  would  measure  a 
thing  in  her  own  mind  by  saying  "  two 
higher  than  Mr.  Sumner,"  or  "  twice  as  high 
as  Mr.  Summer,"  as  the  case  might  be.  I 


OUR  GUESTS.  199 

can  remember  him  carrying  the  baby  Maud 
on  his  shoulder,  and  bowing  his  lofty  crest 
to  pass  through  the  doorway.  Sometimes 
his  mother,  Madam  Sunnier,  came  with  him, 
a  gracious  and  charming  old  lady.  I  am 
told  that  on  a  day  when  she  was  spend 
ing  an  hour  at  Green  Peace,  and  sitting  in 
the  parlor  window  with  our  mother,  Laura 
felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  entertain  the 
distinguished  visitor ;  so,  being  arrayed  .in 
her  best  white  frock,  she  took  up  her  station 
on  the  gravel  path  below  the  window,  and 
rilling  a  little  basket  with  gravel,  proceeded 
to  pour  it  over  her  head,  exclaiming,  "  Mit 
Humner  !  hee  my  ektibiton  !  "  This  meant 
"  exhibition."  Laura  could  not  pronounce 
the  letter  .5*  in  childhood's  happy  hour. 
"  Mamma,"  she  would  say,  if  she  saw  our 
mother  look  grave,  "  Id  you  had  ?  Why  id 
you  had?  "  and  then  she  would  bring  a  doll's 
dish,  or  it  might  be  a  saucepan,  and  give  it 
to  her  mother  and  say,  with  infinite  satisfac 
tion,  "  Dere  !  'mooge  you'helf  wid  dat !  " 

Another  ever  welcome  guest  was  John  A. 
Andrew,   the  great  War   Governor,   as   we 


200  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR  AGE. 

loved  to  call  him.  He  was  not  governor  in 
those  days,  —  that  is,  when  I  first  remember 
him  ;  but  he  was  then,  as  always,  one  of  the 
most  delightful  of  men.  \Vho  else  could  tell 
a  story  with  such  exquisite  humor?  The 
stories  themselves  were  better  than  any 
others,  but  his  way  of  telling  them  set  every 
word  in  gold.  The  very  sound  of  his  voice 
made  the  air  brighter  and  warmer,  and  his 
own  delightful  atmosphere  of  sunny  geniality 
went  always  with  him.  That  was  a  wonder 
ful  evening  when  at  one  of  our  parties  some 
scenes  from  Thackeray's  "  The  Rose  and 
the  Ring"  were  given.  Our  mother  \\a^ 
Countess  Gruffanuff,  our  father  Kutasoff 
Hedzoff;  Governor  Andrew  took  the  part 
of  Prince  Bulbo,  while  Flossy  made  a 
sprightly  Angelica,  and  Julia  as  Betsinda 
was  a  vision  of  rarest  beauty.  I  cannot 
remember  who  was  Prince  Giglio,  but  tin 
figure  of  Bulbo,  with  closely  curling  hair. 
his  fine  face  aglow  with  merriment,  and  the 
magic  rose  in  his  buttonhole,  comes  dis 
tinctly  before  me. 

Who   were   the  guests   at   those   dinn 


OUR   GUESTS.  201 

parties  so  well  remembered  ?  Alas  !  I  know 
not.  Great  people  they  often  were,  famous 
men  and  women,  who  talked,  no  doubt,  bril 
liantly  and  delightfully.  But  is  it  their  con 
versation  which  lingers  like  a  charm  in  my 
memory?  Again,  alas!  my  recollection  is 
of  finger-bowls,  crimson  and  purple,  which 
sang  beneath  the  wetted  finger  of  some 
kindly  elder ;  of  almonds  and  raisins,  and 
bonbons  mystic,  wonderful,  all  gauze  and 
tinsel  and  silver  paper,  with  flat  pieces  of 
red  sugar  within.  The  red  sugar  was  some 
thing  of  an  anticlimax  after  the  splendors 
of  its  envelope,  being  insipidly  sweet,  with  no 
special  flavor.  The  scent  of  coffee  comes 
back  to  me,  rich,  delicious,  breathing  of  "  the 
golden  days  of  good  Haroun  Alraschid." 
We  were  never  allowed  to  drink  coffee  or 
tea ;  but  standing  by  our  mother's  chair,  just 
before  saying  good-night,  we  received  the 
most  exquisite  dainty  the  world  afforded,  — 
a  "  coffee-duck,"  which  to  the  ignorant  is 
explained  to  be  a  lump  of  sugar  dipped  in 
coffee  (black  coffee,  bien  entendu)  and  held 
in  the  amber  liquid  till  it  begins  to  melt 


202  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR 

in  delicious  "  honeycomb  "  (this  was  prob 
ably  the  true  ambrosia  of  the  gods) ;  and 
then  we  said  good-night,  and  —  and  —  went 
and  begged  the  cook  for  a  "  whip,"  or  some 
"  floating-island,"  or  a  piece  of  frosted  cake! 
Was  it  strange  that  occasionally,  after  one 
of  these  feasts,  Laura  could  not  sleep,  and 
was  smitten  with  the  "  terror  by  night  "  (it 
was  generally  a  locomotive  which  was  com 
ing  in  at  the  window  to  annihilate  her ;  Julia 
was  the  one  who  used  to  weep  at  night  for 
fear  of  foxes),  and  would  come  trotting  down 
into  the  lighted  drawing-room,  among  all 
the  silks  and  satins,  arrayed  in  the  simple 
garment  known  as  a  "leg-nightgown,"  de 
manding  her  mother  ?  Ay,  and  I  remember 
that  she  always  got  her  mother,  too. 

But  these  guests  ?  I  remember  the  great 
Professor  Agassiz,  with  his  wise,  kindly  face 
and  genial  smile.  I  can  sec  him  putting 
sugar  into  his  coffee,  lump  after  lump,  till  it 
stood  up  above  the  liquid  like  one  of  his  own 
glaciers.  I  remember  all  the  "  Abolition  " 
leaders,  for  our  own  parents  were  stanch 
Abolitionists,  and  worked  heart  and  soul  for 


OUR  GUESTS.  203 

the  cause  of  freedom.  I  remember  when 
Swedish  ships  came  into  Boston  Harbor, 
probably  for  the  express  purpose  of  filling 
our  parlors  with  fair-haired  officers,  wonder 
ful,  magnificent,  shining  with  epaulets  and 
buttons.  There  may  have  been  other 
reasons  for  the  visit ;  there  may  have  been 
deep  political  designs,  and  all  manner  of 
mysteries  relating  to  the  peace  of  nations, 
I  know  not.  But  I  know  that  there  was  a 
little  midshipman  in  white  trousers,  who 
danced  with  Laura,  and  made  her  a  bow 
afterward,  and  said,  "I  tanks  you  for  de 
polska."  He  was  a  dear  little  midshipman  ! 
There  was  an  admiral  too,  who  corresponded 
more  or  less  with 'Sou they's  description, — 

"  And  last  of  all  an  admiral  came, 
A  terrible  man  with  a  terrible  name,  — 
A  name  which,  you  all  must  know  very  well, 
Nobody  can  speak,  and  nobody  can  spell." 

The  admiral  said  to  Harry,  "  I  understand 
you  shall  not  go  to  sea  in  future  times  ?  " 
and  that  is  all  I  remember  about  him. 

I  remember  Charlotte  Cushman,  the  great 
actress  and   noble  woman,  who  was  a  dear 


204  WHEN  I  WAS   VOUR  AGE. 

friend  of  our  mother;  with  a  deep,  vibrat 
ing,  melodious  voice,  and  a  strong,  almost 
masculine  face,  which  was  full  of  wisdom 
and  kindliness. 

I  remember  Edwin  Booth,  in  the  early 
days,  when  his  brilliant  genius  and  the 
splendor  of  his  melancholy  beauty  were  tak 
ing  all  hearts  by  storm.  He  was  very  shy, 
this  all-powerful  Richelieu,  this  conquering 
Richard,  this  princely  Hamlet.  He  came  to 
a  party  given  in  his  honor  by  our  mother, 
and  instead  of  talking  to  all  the  fine  people 
who  were  dying  for  a  word  with  him.  he 
spent  nearly  the  whole  evening  in  a  corner 
with  little  Maud,  who  enjoyed  herself  im 
mensely.  What  wonder,  when  he  made  dolls 
for  her  out  of  handkerchiefs,  and  danced 
them  with  dramatic  fervor?  She  was  very 
gracious  to  Mr.  Booth,  which  was  a  good 
thing;  for  one  never  knew  just  what  Maud 
would  say  or  do.  Truth  compels  me  to  add 
that  she  was  the  enfant  terrible  of  the  family, 
and  that  the  elders  always  trembled  \vh«-n 
visitors  noticed  or  caressed  the  beautiful 
child. 


OUR  GUESTS.  205 

One  day,  I  remember,  a  very  wise  and 
learned  man  came  to  Green  Peace  to  see 
our  mother,  —  a  man  of  high  reputation,  and 
withal  a  valued  friend.  He  was  fond  of 
children,  and  took  Maud  on  his  knee,  mean 
ing  to  have  a  pleasant  chat  with  her.  But 
Maud  fixed  her  great  gray  eyes  on  him,  and 
surveyed  him  with  an  air  of  keen  and  hostile 
criticism.  "  What  makes  all  those  little  red 
lines  in  your  nose  ? "  she  asked,  after  an 

ominous    silence.      Mr.    H ,   somewhat 

taken  aback,  explained  as  well  as  he  could 
the  nature  of  the  veins,  and  our  mother  was 
about  to  send  the  child  on  some  suddenly- 
bethought-of  errand,  when  her  clear,  melo 
dious  voice  broke  out  again,  relentless, 
insistent :  "  Do  you  know,  I  think  you  are 
the  ugliest  man  I  ever  saw  in  my  life ! " 

"  That   will   do,  Maud  !  "   said    Mr.    H , 

putting  her  down  from  his  knee.  "  You  are 
charming,  but  you  may  go  now,  my  dear." 
Then  he  and  our  mother  both  tried  to  be 
come  very  much  interested  in  metaphysics  ; 
and  next  day  he  went  and  asked  a  mutual 
friend  if  he  were  really  the  ugliest  man  that 


206  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

ever  was  seen,  telling  her  what  Maud  had 
said. 

Again,  there  was  a  certain  acquaintance 
—  long  since  dead  —  who  was  in  the  habit 
of  making  interminable  calls  at  Green  Peace, 
and  who  would  talk  by  the  hour  together 
without  pausing.  Our  parents  were  often 
wearied  by  this  gentleman's  conversational 
powers,  and  one  of  them  (let  this  be  a 
warning  to  young  and  old)  chanced  one 
day  to  speak  of  him  in  Maud's  hearing  as 
"  a  great  bore."  This  was  enough  !  The 
next  time  the  unlucky  talker  appeared,  the 
child  ran  up  to  him,  and  greeted  him  cor 
dially  with,  "  How  do  you  do,  bore  ?  Oh, 
you  great  bore  !  "  A  quick-witted  friend 
who  was  in  the  room  instantly  asked  Mr. 

S if  he  had  seen  the  copy  of  Snyder's 

"  Boar  Hunt  "  which  our  father  had  lately 
bought,  thinking  it  better  that  he  should 
fancy  himself  addressed  as  a  beast  of  the 
forest  than  as  Borus  humanus ;  but  he  kept 
his  own  counsel,  and  we  never  knew  what  he 
really  thought  of  Maud's  greeting. 

But  of  all  visitors  at  either  house,  there 


OUR  GUESTS.  207 

was  one  whom  we  loved  more  than  all  others 
put  together.  Marked  with  a  white  stone 
was  the  happy  day  which  brought  the  won 
derful  uncle,  the  fairy  godfather,  the  reali 
zation  of  all  that  is  delightful  in  man,  to 
Green  Peace  or  the  Valley.  Uncle  Sam 
Ward !  —  uncle  by  adoption  to  half  the  young 
people  he  knew,  but  our  very  own  uncle,  our 
mother's  beloved  brother.  We  might  have 
said  to  him,  with  Shelley,  — 

"  Rarely,  rarely  comest  thou, 
Spirit  of  delight !" 

for  he  was  a  busy  man,  and  Washington  was 
a  long  way  off ;  but  when  he  did  come,  as 
I  said,  it  was  a  golden  day.  We  fairly 
smothered  him,  —  each  child  wanting  to  sit 
on  his  knee,  to  see  his  great  watch,  and  the 
wonderful  sapphire  that  he  always  wore  on 
his  little  finger.  Then  he  must  sing  for  us  ; 
and  he  would  sine:  the  old  Studenten  Lieder 

O 

in  his  full,  joyous  voice;  but  he  must  always 
wind  up  with  "  Balzoroschko  Schnego "  (at 
least  that  is  what  it  sounded  like),  a  certain 
Polish  drinking-song,  in  which  he  sneezed 


208  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUR  AGE. 

and  yodeled,  and  did  all  kinds  of  wonderful 
things. 

Then  would  come  an  hour  of  quiet  talk 
with  our  mother,  when  we  knew  enough  to 
be  silent  and  listen,  —  feeling,  perhaps,  rather 
than  realizing  that  it  was  not  a  common 
privilege  to  listen  to  such  talk. 

"  No  matter  how  much  I  may  differ  from 
Sam  Ward  in  principles  or  opinion,"  said 
Charles  Sumner  once,  "when  I  have  been 
with  him  five  minutes,  I  forgrt  i-vi-rvthing 
except  that  he  is  the  most  delightful  man 
in  the  world." 

Again  (but  this  was  the  least  part  of  the 
pleasure),  he  never  came  empty-handed. 
Now  it  was  a  basket  of  wonderful  peaches, 
which  he  thought  might  rival  ours;  now 
a  gold  bracelet  for  a  niece's  wrist;  now  a 
beautiful  book,  or  a  pretty  drc^-pattern  that 
had  caught  his  eye  in  some  shop-window. 
Now  he  came  direct  from  South  America, 
bringing  for  our  mother  a  silver  pitcher 
which  he  had  won  as  a  prize  at  a  shooting, 
match  in  Paraguay.  One  of  us  will  n 
forget  being  waked  in  the  gray  dawn  of  a 


OUR   GUESTS.  209 

summer  morning  at  the  Valley,  by  the  sound 
of  a  voice  singing  outside,  —  will  never  for 
get  creeping  to  the  window  and  peeping  out 
through  the  blinds.  There  on  the  door-step 
stood  the  fairy  uncle,  with  a  great  basket  of 
peaches  beside  him ;  and  he  was  singing  the 
lovely  old  French  song,  which  has  always 
since  then  seemed  to  me  to  belong  to  him : 

"  Noble  Chitelaine, 
Voyez  notre  peine, 
Et  dans  vos  domaines 
Rendez  charite"! 
Voyez  le  disgrace 
Qui  nous  menace, 
Et  donnez,  par  grace, 
L'hospitalite ! 
Toi  que  je  revere, 
Entends  ma  pri6re. 
O  Dieu  tutelaire, 
Viens  dans  ta  bont<5, 
Pour  sauver  1'innocence, 
Et  que  ta  puissance 
Un  jour  recompense 
L'hospitalite!" 

There  is  no  sweeter  song.  And  do  you 
think  we  did  not  tumble  into  our  clothes 
and  rush  down,  in  wrappers,  in  petticoats, 
in  whatever  gown  could  be  most  quickly  put 

14 


210  WHEN  I  WAS   YOUR    AGE. 

on,  and  unbar  the  door,  and  bring  the  dear 
wanderer  in,  with  joyful  cries,  with  laughter, 
almost  with  tears  of  pure  pleasure? 

Ah,  that  was  "long  ago  and  long  ago;" 
and  now  the  kind  uncle,  the  great  heart  that 
overflowed  with  love  and  charity  and  good 
will  to  all  human  kind,  has  passed  through 
another  door,  and  will  not  return!  Be  sure 
that  on  knocking  at  that  white  portal,  he 
found  hospitality  within. 

And  now  it  is  time  that  these  rambling 
notes  should  draw  to  a  close.  There  arc 
many  things  that  I  might  still  speak  of. 
But,  after  all,  long  ago  is  long  ago,  and 
these  glimpses  of  our  happy  childhood  must 
necessarily  be  fragmentary  and  brief.  I 
trust  they  may  have  given  pleasure  to  some 
children.  I  wish  all  childhood  might  be  as 
bright,  as  happy,  as  free  from  care  or  sorrow, 
as  was  ours. 

THE    END. 


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